Remember Us
by kinginthenorth23
Summary: The Seven Kingdoms are at peace. The Others are no more. Queen Daenerys and King Aegon rule the South. King Jon Targaryen Stark and Queen Sansa rule in the North. A shadow looms in the East and only King Jon Targaryen Stark and his royal guard of three-hundred can stop it. Based on the battle of thermopylae, the comic 300, and a song of ice and fire. AU. Sansa/Jon.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: GRRM owns all.**

 **This story is based on the Battle of Thermopylae, which after reading the Frank Miller comic 300 inspired me to write this short story where those same circumstances happen in Westeros.**

 **Yeah if you're reading this for extreme utter realism then turn away because I'm that kind of person and I'm self-aware of the unlikely hood of this story happening in Westeros. However, if you like the idea of this story, perhaps even the battle of Thermopylae itself or just 300, then stick around to read I think you may like it.**

 **Just to give some background about where Westeros is at in this universe. Daenerys and Aegon Targaryen rule as King and Queen in the South while Jon Targaryen Stark and Sansa Stark rule as King and Queen in the North. This is after the ASOIAF saga because the Others have been defeated and the kingdoms are at peace.**

 **I decided to post the story as a whole seeing as it's so short. No need to treat it like an actual lengthy fanfic where I update every so often.**

 **This story will be POV format and in the same style as all of my stories.**

 **-x-**

 **That symbol signifies a change in POV during a chapter.**

 **-x-**

 **Chapter 1**

 **Rickon**

We march.

From dear Winterfell, from the heart of the North, we march. For honor's sake, for glory' sake, for duty's sake, we march.

The cold summer winds are at our back as the green fields of the North lie before us. For the pass near White Harbor we go, only the handful of us. Only the group of men chosen by the King to hold the North in the name of our freedoms. It was over eighteen years ago when the Others were defeated and the Seven Kingdoms finally were in peace, but a growing cloud from the East threatened that peace. A cloud that had been stirring since Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name had usurped the crown all those years ago.

We march now to defend our families, our homes, and all we love. Only us…only three hundred who came from Winterfell.

Rickon Stark, the Master-at-arms, Captain of the Royal Guard, and Castellan of Winterfell watches as one of the young lads named Martyn fell down from exhaustion. He took a whole host of men with him and they made a loud crash when they did. The King ordered a hault, but Rickon knew that this would not be pardoned by him. Time was not on their side and they had to sometimes march through the night to arrive at the pass in time…the Hot Gates they were referred to as by those who lived near White Harbor. Known for their hot springs the pass was narrow but close enough for an army to land ashore. It was a pass narrow enough to hold them off giving Queen Daenerys enough time and the rest of the North to rally their armies.

Rickon ordered the men to a halt. The wind whistled in the air and his auburn hair flew in his face. Rickon walked forward in frustration as the young lad Martyn got up from the ground. He grabbed his helm and shield, shaking the dizziness from his head. The others did the same around him. Rickon walked up to the lad, pulled him by his neck and stared at him in the eyes. "Martyn, you clown!" he admonished. The boy looked at him with wide blue eyes. He was at an age with Prince Robb, he knew. The crown prince to the Northern Kingdom. "You know this cannot go unpunished. Three times you have fallen. Three times you have made us stop our march. Three times, lad!"

He nodded. "I am ready for my punishment, Ser."

Discipline. That is what the man from the East had taught them when he introduced his new style of fighting to King Jon. Duty. Is what he had emphasized. Honor. Is what he said was most important above all. "Are you sure?" Rickon asked him.

Martyn nodded as he punched the lad in the stomach, throwing him to the ground. The men behind him cheered on, knowing the lad was being accepted by them. He fell to the ground clutching his stomach as Rickon kicked him once more. If the men were not taught that actions had consequences this was all for nothing. The lad groaned as Rickon kicked him in the back once more. The shock of hitting the lads armor sent a shock up his foot but he did not care.

He beat him a few more times until he heard faintly what sounded like an order from his brother-cousin, the King. "Enough!" Jon Targaryen Stark bellowed but Rickon did not care to stop.

Rickon knew that the King would not repeat the order and suddenly he was looking up at the sky as his back met the ground. His king stood over him looking like an old wolf, a leader of men. His grey eyes revealed that he had seen many things, his long black-brown hair rested below his ears, his black-brown beard with a couple streaks of grey conveyed the wisdom he now had. Even with his age he was still as youthful as any of these soldiers he had brought with him. It was if the man never aged in spirit.

"Up, Rickon," he ordered. Rickon got up and rubbed the back of his head. It was throbbing in pain and Rickon saw Martyn with a bruise on his face already forming, nose bloodied as well. Rickon turned to see his shield on the floor, his helm and spear with it. His back ached as well and he knew it would be hard for him to carry all that weight.

The King in his armor with his grey cape looked to Martyn. "You, Martyn, carry Ser Rickon's things. That is your punishment." He looked to the rest of you. "We march with no food and water until we camp for the night seeing as the rest of you were so quick not to help your comrade-in-arms. We are one unit, one fist, and need to be there for each other. That punishment goes for me as well."

Not a word was ushered by the men but as Martyn picked up Rickon's things to carry he received harsh looks from them all. Rickon moved to the head of the column and Jon only looked forward. "Move out!" he ordered and the three-hundred began to march again.

"Nice going, Martyn!" The men grumbled from behind. "Don't be such a clumsy oaf, next time!"

In shame, we march.

The night sky greeted them as they made camp for the night. Stars filled the night sky as if they were dots on a black field and the summer wind blows cool through the grassy plans. Rickon sat around the fire and spun his stories of heroism and exaggeration. The men were all settling for the night: some sat around fires eating, some drinking water, some stretching and sharpening their swords. Rickon saw even a few were combing out their long hair and others polished their shields. But many gathered around to hear him tell their favorite story.

"It was cold North of the Wall," Rickon said. He was a tall man now, broad and strong with youth on his side. A leader of men who had seen many winters now since Ser Davos had rescued him from Skaggos. He was telling his story about the lad named Azor Ahai, the legend who defeated the Night's King. "The hero was tired from battle, wounded from cuts and sore from sitting on dragon's scales. It was his baptism in combat after being reborn—he would vanquish the Night's King or die trying. He was far from home and had fought on his mighty green dragon, Rhaegal. Sending fire down upon the Others and their King.

The dragon had been killed by ice arrows and spears. It gave a mighty roar and crashed into the snow, sending Azor Ahai into the ground. He stood up from the snow surrounded by Others with nothing but his sword Lightbringer. Defenseless they circled around him and now he felt like prey.

The Others opened up for the Night's King to walk through and meet him. The King of the Others drew his mighty sword made of ice circling Azor Ahai as if he were a beast taking down his prey. Did Azor Ahai run? Did he cower? Did he cry? No. Not this man. Not the man he had been reborn as. Azor Ahai drew his sword of flame, Lighbringer, and was calm. All sense of fear had been extinguished when he was reborn in salt and smoke. The cold winter winds screamed and the Night's King charged at him. Back-and-forth they went, Ice and Fire, dancing around each other making music in the night. When all seemed lost, fate showed itself to him. Quickly he trapped the Night's King and destroyed his great ice sword. His form was perfect, his thrust timely, and Lighbringer took the head off the King of the Others.

The Others around him gave a ghastly screech and became nothing but piles of ice on the ground. And so the man who had been given up for dead by the army of wildlings, peoples of the Seven Kingdoms, and the Targaryens with their dragons…returned, a _King!_ Our _King_! _King Jon Stark! Ahoooo!_ "

" _Ahooo! Ahooo! Ahooo!_ " The men around him yelled, thrusting their fists and spears in the air.

Rickon looked to see King Jon by himself standing looking at the stars. His brown-black hair danced in the wind, his grey cape with it. _Looking towards Winterfell, no doubt_. He knew that his mind was in the moment, but his heart was with Sansa and their children. Rickon knew he disliked it when he told this story, not because it wasn't what happened but because the battle for Westeros was more saddening than it was heroic. Yet Jon always stood close enough to listen and stood far enough to seem as if he was not interested. King Jon wrapped himself in his grey cape and turned to them. His silver eyes shimmered as the orange-hue of the fires shone on his face. Rickon saw the scars on there he had received North of the Wall as well. "Enough with the stories, lads," he said. "Get your sleep. We march again at dawn."

Rickon awoke in the middle of the night to see Jon walking around the camp wrapped in his grey cloak and holding his spear. Most of the campfires were smoldering yet some burned brightly to ward off animals. The men were all asleep around them. All slept draped in their cloaks and used their shields for pillows. Rickon stood from the ground, wrapped himself in his grey cloak and walked to his king.

"Jon," he said quietly. His brother-cousin turned to face him and nodded. "Why aren't you sleeping with the rest of us? King, you are, but a king still needs his sleep like all men."

"I cannot sleep, Rickon," he told him. They walked past the sleeping men and moved to a part of the camp where you could hear nothing but crickets and see the stars. "I just want to be alone with my thoughts."

"I know what you mean. I also feel the same from time-to-time."

Jon nodded. He had changed since the Battle of Winterfell, since he had learned he was not the bastard of Eddard Stark but the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. He had grown wiser, more stoic and did not care for childish things anymore like stories of grandure and heroism. _The Prince that was Promised_ , he was called by most in the Seven Kingdoms. But to Rickon he was Jon—only Jon. When the Others had been defeated Aegon Targaryen and Daenerys had planned to marry, to keep the Targaryen tradition going, and planned to make Jon Warden of the North. They planned to make the Targaryens a dynasty again and planned to sit on the Iron Throne once more. But Jon would not have it and told them he either wanted to be King of the North—to rule separate from the Seven Kingdoms and not get involved in their affairs—or to not rule at all. Left with only the option of fighting their Targaryen relative in battle or losing half of their kingdom, Queen Daenerys and Aegon conceded to his demand. They knew that all of the common folk of the South, the North, and even the wildlings loved Jon that most of them would go to war for him in a moments notice. He was a mythical figure to them all, the man that defeated the Others and saved Westeros. Seeing as they had no other choice, Daenerys crowned Jon as the King in the North and Sansa as his queen. The North would rule only over themselves, the South over themselves, but they remained allies nonetheless. Should they face a common enemy once again or should a kingdom rise to threaten the South, Jon and Daenerys were to help each other. Such were the events they faced today.

"Do you?" Jon asked him, taking Rickon out of his thoughts. "I feel as if the weight of the world is on my shoulders. Nothing but this small force of three-hundred northmen, three-hundred of the best the North has to offer, stands between our lands and the invaders from the East."

"Other lords have pledged to meet us at the Hot Gates. The Karstarks, the Manderlys, Flints—"

"—It's not enough, Rickon. The entire East has risen up against us. Gone are the Free Cities. Ruled by a mad tyrant they are—a mad tyrant who wishes for Westeros to either submit or pay our debts. We cannot do either. All we can do is fight."

"Do you know how many have come to fight us?"

"Some say two-hundred thousand."

"Two-hundred thousand?! What can we do against such a force?"

"We can fight or die. This weight is too much, I feel. Daenerys and Aegon need time to marshal their forces, and it will take time to move north."

"Why do they invade the North and not at the Blackwater?"

"They will be expecting that. They know that it will be easier to move from the North and hold Moat Cailin than to do the opposite."

Rickon saw the truth in that. As the crickets sang he asked, "What is it you feel, Jon?" He could only call him that in-private.

The King sighed. "It's been nineteen years since the events of the story you told earlier. And now, as then, it is not fear that grips me. No. Not fear. It is only a sense of restlessness, a sense of duty and what is right. A sense to protect the helpless and try to bring those three-hundred snoring men behind me back home to their families."

"They'd die for you, Jon. You know that. I would, too."

He snorted. "Die for me…that's real poetic, isn't it? As if any of you know what it means to die for someone else."

"These men are battle-hardened, they're the best we have to offer. Every man here has fathered sons to carry on their name, save young Martyn."

"I know, Rickon, but all men say they're ready to die until it stares them right in the face."

"Nonetheless, they knew what they signed up for. They knew what this meant. They knew the cloud in the East that approaches our shores as the Others did all those years ago. But this force of Others is made of men, horses, spears, and swords. An army so diverse and vast it is said they make the ground shake as they march. And they want to kill us all, bound by the whims of a mad tyrant. This beast approaches, Jon, and only we can stop it."

Jon looked remorseful. "I could have stopped it. I could have if I had not provoked them into it."

"Provocation or not, their invasion was imminent. You know Aegon and Daenerys are at fault for this. You know of what I speak, Jon. That slave revolt Queen Daenerys incited years ago at the behest of King Aegon. They supplied arms to the rebelling slaves and even officers to command them. She caused trouble in the East by doing that, crippling their economy. Mazor comes for revenge."

"As is his right," Jon admitted. "I hate slavery myself but Daenerys knew that this day would come—the day where the East looked for retribution."

"So as you said, this was unavoidable. You did not provoke it."

"I've wondered that myself but I knew I made the right choice barely a year ago. The north would not have submitted to foreign rule." He laid a hand on Rickon's shoulder. "Get some sleep, Rickon. Tomorrow we make for those hot springs. Tomorrow we face our fate."

His king gave a solemn smile and walked away. Rickon went back to sleep and thought on what had happened a year ago when the messenger from the East came to Winterfell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: GRRM owns all. This chapter takes place almost a year into the past.**

 **Chapter 2**

 **Sansa**

The iron-tipped spears shimmered in the sunlight. The men of the Royal Guard grunted in unison as they jabbed their spears forward in a single column of men. Their iron shields overlapped eachothers and together they formed a single wall of spears. Jon and Sansa were in the training yard overlooking the new style of training being introduced. It was fairly new and a man from the East had come to Winterfell, from Braavos he was, asking for an audience with the King and Queen of the North. He was wearing simple garments of the East when he arrived in Winterfell, spun cotton with gold outlines and a big brown beard to match. His skin was olive and his hair black. He was neither homely nor comely, but his accent was thick.

Jon had his arm around Sansa as they watched the men train. The Braavosi man had trained Unsullied, the famous eunich spearmen from the East, and had come to Westeros looking for employment under a lord or King who would have him. He was a good negotiator, Sansa knew, and spun a tale of a new fighting style from the east. The phalanx, he called it, and showed us what had to be done. It was a variation of the traditional shield wall, she knew, but the men fought as a single unit. The men in front overlapped shields and would thrust their spears into the enemy, whilst the second row of men would thrust spears from over top. The middle and last rows of men would use their shields to push into the backs of the men in-front of them, pushing the enemy even further back while they were being jabbed with spears. Jon saw promise in this fighting style and knew it would be useful should someone invade the North from the Neck, where the narrow pass or any narrow pass would give them an advantage.

Sansa and Jon's son Robb had wanted to watch them fight, had wanted to learn the new style, but Jon did not let him. Robb was eight-and-ten now, the Crown Prince of the North. He had a younger sister the Princess Lyanna who was six-and-ten. Robb had the Tully hair and look but his eyes were silver, whereas Lyanna had blue eyes but Jon's dark hair and looks. Both were beautiful babes in her eyes and Robb was eager to learn, eager to rule. Sansa would always say his day would come. That one day he would wear the crown on his head.

"Push harder!" The Braavosi ordered, taking Sansa away from thoughts of her children. He had introduced himself as Uthero. He was dressed in nothing but leather pants and a leather jerkin this day. Jon had given him quarters in Winterfell so he could stay and train the Royal Guard. Uthero approached the group of three-hundred men and grabbed the shield of one of the men. "The strength of the phalanx lies not so much in the strength of your spear thrust as it does in the man next to you!"

He grabbed a shield and assumed the fighting position. "Each man's shield covers the man to his left, not himself. And the men in the back are equally as important. All spaces must be covered and not one man can show weakness in protecting the man next to him. If he should then the whole formation crumbles. Again!"

The men continued to train and Jon turned to kiss her on the head. For many nights he had spoken about the promise this new fighting style would bring. "This will revolutionize combat," he whispered to her over the sounds of commands, grunts, and jabs. "No one else in the Seven Kingdoms will see it coming."

Sansa nodded against him. "But can it stop cavalry, Jon?"

"Uthero says a spearhead formation can stop cavalry should they come from all angles."

"But this formation leaves you weak from the rear."

"It does, but we can adapt to that."

"How? The boiled leather coupled with the chainmail, shields, greaves, helms and swords will slow a man down."

Sansa looked up to see him smile as if he held some great secret. "Yes, my Queen, but Uthero here has shown me how to remedy that."

"How?"

Jon kissed her and said, "Who says we still have to use boiled leather and chainmail?"

Surprised, Sansa took a moment to think. "So you will fight naked?" she japed. "Is that the remedy to make you quicker?"

"No, my queen," he said with a laugh. "But we won't be using boiled leather and chainmail any longer."

Uthero ordered the men to rest for a moment and beckoned the King and Queen forward. "I have the new armor ready, my King," he told them in his thick accent. "This is what they use in the East—or so they did long ago. The phalanx may only work if the men are free to move. And I fear with your boiled leather and chainmail it will not work so well."

Jon nodded and bid him inside the Great Hall to show him the armor Mikken had made. Once inside Uthero came forward with the new armor that Jon had kept secret. Sansa thought it beautiful. In place of boiled leather and chainmail they wore an iron made breastplate figured into the torso of a man. It was made of two pieces, one to the cover the front and one to cover the back, both held together by leather belts on the shoulders and sides. Underneath one wore a grey tunic which extended down to the middle of their thighs. Grey greaves covered the forearms and shins, whilst layered leather skirts covered the nether regions and tops of their legs. On their feet they wore black leather boots. Even the helm was drastically different. Their helm now covered the face save openings in the eyes that figured to their natural shape, and a piece of iron that covered some of the nose. When worn you could only see both eyes, mouth, chin, and some of the nose. However, a black horse haired crest was on Jon's helm which made him look like a rooster. Accompanying all of this was a grey cloak to signify house Stark, held together by a direwolf brooch. Even the iron shields were painted with the direwolf of Stark on them. Each man had his new armor, a shield, sword, helm, cloak and spear.

"This new armor is lovely!" Sansa exclaimed upon examination. "It looks much lighter and more fitting for the phalanx."

"Yes, my Queen," Uthero agreed. "This will make the men be able to move with much more ease."

"At the cost of leaving some of their arms and legs exposed to cold and arrows."

"Everything has a cost, Your Grace. But that is why we have the cloak to cover them."

"Aye," Jon agreed. He stepped forward to put his helm on and with his horse haired crest looked intimidating. "How much of this new armor has Mikken made?"

"Enough for the royal guard, Your Grace."

"About three-hundred, then," Sansa deduced.

"Yes, My Queen."

"And do all of the helms have the horse-haired crest on them?"

"No, Your Grace," Uthero told him. "Only yours to signify that you are the King."

Jon took his off and nodded. Uthero trained the men each day and about a fortnight later Sansa and Jon were summoned from their pleas. Sansa had been sitting in the High Chair of Winterfell next to Jon hearing a farmer talk about a pack of wolves endangering his flock. Sansa had promised him a young lad trained in the ways of the bow to protect his sheep. The farmer was grateful and was escorted away. An old man had come forward when suddenly the doors to the Great Hall opened in a flash.

Rickon came in dressed in his boiled leather and chainmail, seeing as the new armor wasn't to be worn yet, with a few guards behind him. He came forward and took a knee in-front of the King and Queen. "Your Grace," he said, addressing Jon. "We have visitors from the East."

"Uthero?"

"No, Your Grace. This man is a messenger who represents a new king in the East named Mazor. He bids an audience with you."

Jon looked to Sansa who gave him a nod of approval. "Then we shall grant him one," he said.

In the courtyard Jon and Sansa gathered with a few of the Royal Guard. The messenger was a tall man, dark in skin with a long beard to match. He was just in cotton overcoat with ornate designs on it laced with gold. He wore a cloak as well made of wool and it was held together by a golden brooch shaped in the face of a man. He had brought a retinue of men with him, Sansa noticed, and had bowed when he faced both her and Jon. In the courtyard they stood facing each other while around them people pretended not to notice, continuing with their duties. Robb and Lyanna would be at their daily lessons, she knew.

The messenger introduced himself as Navos, a servant of the High King Mazor. A man who had conquered all of Essos, bringing it under the iron grip of his rule. He had spoken in riddles, not showing his intent. The retinue of men he brought with him were dressed in simple cotton garbs with no armor. They only had bows on them. Sansa watched as the Royal Guard of Winterfell eyed them wearily—Rickon, especially. All were fingering their sword hilts.

Growing impatient, Jon asked, "Why are you here, then? Do you wish to exchange pleasantries?"

"I have come a long way for earth and water from the North."

Jon laughed. "You came all the way to Winterfell for earth and water? How ridiculous."

"Don't be coy, don't be stupid," Sansa told him. Her violet dress clung to her and her bodice of white linens was tied a bit tight this morning. She had grown tired of this meaningless exchange wishing to gauge the messenger's intent. "The North is cruel and unforgiving, and here you cannot afford to be coy or stupid. Tell us why you're here."

On the messenger's face Sansa saw a look of shock as if he had never been spoken to this way before. "Who does this woman think she is to speak amongst men?"

Everyone went to their weapons at the slight, but Jon stayed them with a motion of his hand. He gripped Sansa's hand even tighter. "She is my wife and my queen, so she will be shown respect. Here in the North our women have a say in things."

"And sometimes we control our men."

The messenger offered his apologies and continued, "My King, a force of men has been assembled that is so massive it shakes the Earth with its march, its number so great it drinks the rivers dry. All the God-King demands is a modest offering of earth and water—a simple token of the North's submission to the will of Mazor."

"Well," Jon replied, "that's a bit of a problem. You see, word has reached my ears that King Aegon has already denied you. I know you will not attack the South so quickly, and threaten to invade the North at the Neck." Sansa did not know that Jon was aware of this God-King. "So, you really leave me with no other option," he continued. "Seeing as you will invade the North regardless, seeing as my half-brother has already turned you down…I have my reputation and that of the North to consider. I'm sure we can handle this diplomatically."

"Choose your next words, carefully," the messenger warned. "King Mazor's mercy has limits."

"Aye, I know the limits of your mercy. Tales from the East reach me of what King Mazor does to those who oppose him. Nailing children to trees, butchering old folk, raping women and making them your slaves. Aye, I know what your king does and I know what my answer is." Suddenly Jon disentangled himself from Sansa and drew his sword, Longclaw. Lightbringer had been destroyed fighting the Others. He pointed the sword at the messenger. "If it is earth and water you seek, you'll find plenty of both in the ground."

The messenger threw his hands in the air. "No one threatens a messenger. Are you mad?"

"No, I'm not. But you have come here to threaten my people and insult my wife." He looked to the Royal Guard. "Rickon, do what must be done. Give Mazor my answer."

In a flash Sansa watched as the Royal Guard attacked the retinue of men who had come with the messenger. They stabbed them with swords, spears, and the like. The men yelled and fell to the ground dead. Rickon had spared two of the men and watched as Jon took off the head of the messenger with a swing of his sword. Once that was over he threw the head over to the two surviving soldiers of Mazor. "Take this to your king," Jon ordered them, "and tell him we do not fear him nor do we submit to his rule. Never will the North be ruled again by anyone but the Starks. _Go!_ "

The men picked up the head and took off on horseback out the gates of Winterfell. Jon wiped the blood off Longclaw and sheathed it, taking Sansa in his arms to tell her, "I wouldn't have normally killed a simple messenger, but it had to be done. We had to send Mazor a message."

"You know this means war, Jon."

"I know," was all he said. He kissed her and they made their way inside.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: GRRM owns all.**

 **Chapter 3**

 **Jon**

The full moon shone brightly upon the grassy plain. Behind him he heard the crackling of wood from the smoldering fires and the snores of his three-hundred. Jon stood upon a boulder to take a look at the full moon. _It's beautiful_ , he thought. _As beautiful as Sansa_. The full moon reminded him of his daughter Lyanna who always loved the moonlight. Jon could remember holding her in his arms as they would sit on the balcony overlooking the courtyard within the Great Keep of Winterfell. Even thoughts of his queen and their daughter did not give him any ease.

There was no sleep for Jon this night, he knew. No sleep for the King of the North. He was too restless and just wished to deal with this invading king from the East. Jon wished to defeat him in battle and knew his men wanted to as well, but the battle was still miles and days away. The thought gave him no peace, yet seeing the moon full to burst in the sky oddly did. Jon wrapped himself in his grey cloak as the brisk winds rolled through the plain. Behind he could still hear the snores of his three-hundred and Jon knew that he was leading them to certain death.

And Rickon as well, he knew. Yet he insisted and knew what this meant. Jon's only wish was that his sacrifice would not be in vain. That the North would remember the battle that was to happen. Jon saw no glory in this—yet knew that his royal guard were only thinking of this glory and victory that this battle would bring them. "They'll write songs about us!" some would say. "Bards will sing of us from here to Dorne! Every man, woman, and child will know about us!" _Glory_ , Jon had thought in contempt at the time, as if that truly means something. Jon did not wish for glory nor honor, he only wished for home.

As the moon shone brightly Jon thought about the events that led him here, how he felt that it was his destiny to defend the North with his three-hundred. _They were all I could spare, all I could muster in such short time_. Shattered shields, spears, swords, and fate will determine this, he knew. And as Jon looked at the moon once more he was brought back to Winterfell with Sansa and his family…

He had been in the courtyard the day after the messenger from Mazor had come to Winterfell. Jon was with Sansa in the balcony overlooking the courtyard watching Uthero train the royal guard. His crown felt heavy that day—the same crown his brother-cousin Robb and the Kings in the North before him had worn—and Jon tried not to think about the messenger's warning. The night before he had gathered Rickon and his captains to devise a battle plan. The Maester of the castle told him that the only place an army could invade the North coming from the east, would be at a place called the Hot Gates. It was near White Harbor and by the coast line. On one side was a tall mountain side, the other the sea with a narrow pass between them. It was there they would hold the army of the east where their numbers would count for nothing.

Sansa's hand was tight within his and Jon watched the men train as one unit. He knew this new battle tactic would take some getting used to but trusted his most seasoned men to hone in on it. Jon himself had trained with them but in this moment could not bring himself to do so.

Beside the men he saw Robb being trained in the ways of the sword fighting one of the highborn lads. His son's auburn hair shone brightly as he fought with his wooden sword. Robb was strong whereas Jon was fast, and it was as if fate was mocking him. His daughter Lyanna was out in the Wolfswood riding horses with the other daughters of noblemen. She had a retinue of men with her and that eased his mind.

Sansa squeezed his hand, taking him out of his thoughts. "Thinking of what the messenger said?" she asked him. Beside him his wife was wearing a modest dress of dark blue—Tully blue. Red hems outlined her bodice and the crown rested on her head. "I would share this burden with you, Jon."

Jon could only grunt. "This burden is my own." He looked down to watch his son spar only for him to say, "This King Mazor comes from the East looking to destroy the Seven Kingdoms. I must do something about it."

"Did you write to Daenerys and Aegon?"

"There is no time," he said, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand. Jon crossed his arms. "They know of this Mazor already, but do not know I have denied him. Mayhaps they already expected it."

"Mayhaps, but you know the agreement we came to with them. We must defend the North should anyone invade—and we must protect the South as well. This is a common enemy, Jon. We must do something."

 _Yes, we must_. "I cannot muster all of the North. There is no time and I must consult someone. The festival will be upon us in a fortnight and you know the custom."

"Yes, I know. The North cannot declare war during the Carneia—but that tradition is ancient. Now we are no longer Seven Kingdoms at war, but two kingdoms at peace. Surely if a common enemy comes to invade us all there must be exceptions."

Jon sighed. "I know, my love, but the North is superstitious. Most folk won't be so reluctant to go against the Old Gods much less dishonor them."

"Surely the gods will understand, Jon. Is there no one you can go to?"

"I'm not sure, Sansa."

After a moment of silence his queen muttered, "Bran. You can go to him. He will guide you, Jon."

"The three-eyed raven? No, Sansa, I cannot go to him."

"You must," she said. "Only he has the wisdom to guide you, only he can tell you your destiny. You know he won't deny you, Jon."

"But he is no longer Bran, Sansa. He is this three-eyed raven."

"His name is Bran, Jon. He is my brother, not this three-eyed raven."

Jon could only smile and kiss the side of her head. "I know, Sansa. I know. Mayhaps you are right, mayhaps I should see him. But how? He is in the heart of the lands beyond the Wall. It is too far a travel."

Sansa gave him that smirk when she knew something he didn't. "Bran told me there is other ways to communicate with him. The weirwood trees, Jon. There you can speak with him."

Jon kissed his wife for her brilliance and knew it to be true. When the stars were out in the night, Jon went to the Godswood of Winterfell. He stood in-front of the weirwood tree and stared into its carved face. _Sansa said I must kneel and rest my palm on its face_. Jon kneeled, placed his hand and waited. Nothing happened for a few moments and Jon grew restless. Suddenly he stood up, having grown impatient, until he heard his name whispered in the wind. "Jon," it said, quietly.

 _It sounds like Bran._ Jon knelt down and did so again, and suddenly he strayed out of thought and time. Suddenly he gasped and saw he was in-front of this three-eyed raven. His brother-cousin Bran was enveloped by the roots of the weirwood. His auburn hair was dark and his blue eyes were bright within the darkness. Jon was on the ground and looked to see he was underneath the weirwood with him. The air was damp, the ground was moist and Jon could only strain his eyes to look at him.

Jon shook his head and stared at Bran. His brother-cousin spoke first, "Welcome, Jon," he said with poise, "I have been expecting you."

"Have you?" Jon asked. He didn't know if he was truly with Bran or still in Winterfell. "How did you know?"

"I saw it," he replied, "as I see all things." Bran's voice did not sound as his own and Jon knew he had changed a long time ago. Gone was Brandon Stark and before Jon was the three-eyed raven. "You seek my council regarding this King Mazor."

"Yes," Jon said with a nod. He stood from the ground wearing nothing but a tunic, breeches, and furs. "This King of the East is on the march. The fate of all the North and perhaps Westeros hangs in the balance."

"Yes, I know. Tell me, have you devised a battle plan?"

"So I am to battle with him?"

Bran did not answer but said, "Answer my question."

"Yes, I have. With Rickon, no less." As if the name meant nothing Bran did not reply. Jon pulled out a map of the North and sunk down on both knees. The mud began to seep into his breeches. "The messenger claimed Mazor's forces lie within the hundreds of thousands, but I think he exaggerates to scare us into submission. Regardless, I know this will be the largest invading force Westeros has seen in a very long time."

"And how will you defeat them should you fight?"

"We will use our new fighting tactic, superior weaponry, and the terrain of the North itself," Jon explained, pointing to the map to show him, "to destroy him. We will march to the Hot Gates near White Harbor."

Bran said nothing for a few moments. "Did you not like our plan?" Jon felt compelled to ask.

"The Carneia," was all he said. "You know the North will honor it."

Jon sighed. He knew that Bran of the past would have told him to defend the North, but now he was the three-eyed raven. "Why must I honor this ancient festival? All of the North will fall unless we act, and if I do not this will be the last Carneia we will ever celebrate."

"The Northmen are superstitious and will not dishonor the Gods. Most of them will not choose to fight and if you force them they will hate you. You lose their love, their loyalty, and their respect. As a king you know this."

Jon only grunted. "No matter. Would you like to hear the rest of the plan?"

"Continue."

"We will block Mazor's coastal march by funneling them into the mountain pass they refer to as the Hot Gates. In that narrow pass their numbers will count for nothing. Caught with the mountain scape on one side and the ocean on the other they cannot defeat us. They will heave wave after wave of soldiers upon us, and with each advance we will beat them back. Their losses will be so great that it will demoralize his men and Mazor will have no choice but to abandon his campaign."

"A good plan," Bran said, "but if you choose to fight it will come at a cost."

"Tell me what I have to lose," Jon begged of him. "I cannot abandon my reason for this festival—you know this, Bran. Just tell me what it is you see."

Bran's eyes fell to the back of his head and only the whites of them were shown to Jon. Once he was done his eyes flickered back to their normal state. Bran was breathing heavily and the roots enclosed around him. His face was lost in the shadows and only his blue eyes pierced out of him. Jon got to his feet and stared into them.

"What did you see?" he asked of him.

"Should you choose to honor the Carneia, the North will fall to this Mazor. They will sack all the cities from White Harbor to Winterfell. Some northern lords will join him, others will fight him. In the end all will perish under him eventually."

"And if I should go to meet him at the Hot Gates?"

Bran's blue eyes were even more piercing in the darkness. "Then the North will mourn the loss of a king, a descendant from the Starks and Targaryens of old."

The full moon shone down brightly on his face as Jon was back in the present at the grassy plains of the North. Behind him he could still hear the snoring of his royal guard and could still hear the cries of the Northern wind. Again the moon reminded him of Sansa and he remembered the last time he saw her in Winterfell.

 _Then the North will mourn the loss of a king, a descendant from the Starks and Targaryens of old._


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: GRRM owns all. I guess Frank Miller some. Mainly George.**

 **Chapter 4**

 **Sansa**

Jon's seed was still wet between her thighs. Her husband had just finished making love to her and was now looking out the window of their chambers. The moonlight shone brightly and illuminated the chamber. Sansa watched her husband, as naked as his nameday, and admired the man he had become. His pale skin held scars in his abdomen from the knife's that stabbed him, but even in his elder age he was still firm and strong. The breeze whistled through the chamber now making Sansa feel cold. She pulled the furs up to her neck and sighed to herself.

He is to leave on the morrow, she knew. This would be the last night they spent together before he moved north with the Royal Guard. Upon his return from seeing Bran, Jon had explained to her his prophecy. Told her that if he didn't move to meet Mazor at the Hot Gates the North would fall. "But there is no time to marshall my army," he told him. "I need more men." Sansa had told him to send a raven to all the lords—to tell them that they could meet him at the Hot Gates or honor the Carneia. Jon did just that the next day but knew that he had no time to muster forces of his own. Winterfell had the castle guard but most of them were green boys, or men who were married but had not fathered any sons to carry on their name; Jon knew that they only men with experience with sons to carry on their name were those of the Royal Guard. Only three-hundred they were but he did not have a choice. Rickon would join them, she knew, seeing as he was the Castellan of Winterfell. He had married a Karstark girl but fathered no children as of yet. It bothered Sansa—the idea of losing another sibling to war—but knew that Rickon was old enough to make his own choice.

The old men on the small council of the North had thrown a fuss about Jon's plan, had told them that he must honor the Carneia. Jon paid them no mind and promised the festival would be honored, but he knew that he would march to the Hot Gates with this three-hundred. He would honor the festival by not bringing all he could muster. Sansa could only hope that other northern lords would send troops…such a mad hope.

Jon still stood looking out the window thinking as he always did. "What is bothering you?" she asked of him.

Jon turned to her, half his face illuminated by the full moon. "Nothing," he lied. "I was just enjoying the moment."

"You lie," she called it. "I know something is troubling you. I am your wife, Jon."

He smiled that smile she loved and sat next to her on the edge of the bed. Sansa rose up to meet his face, covering herself with the furs. "Tell me what bothers you, my king." Sansa stroked his face and hair with her hand. "Tell me what a queen can do to help you."

"There's nothing you can do."

"Tell me what bothers you at least."

"I was thinking of what Bran said," he told her. "His prophecy would take me away from all that I love."

His face was smooth under her hands. "You lose sleep over the words of this prophecy that may not come true?"

"Do not mock him, Sansa. You know Bran's words always come true. Always…"

"But this is the last night we will be together. I want to sleep in your arms once more."

"I know, my sweet, I know. It angers me that this festival keeps me from doing what I must. And the council wants me to not act, to do nothing when I know I must." He shook his head.

"Bugger the festival, bugger the Old Gods, and bugger the council. If they cannot understand then they are not gods, and those old men are fools. You must do what you think is right, Jon. As king you protect all the North and if you do nothing it will fall."

He smiled once more. "I do not deserve a wife such as you."

"You're the only one who truly does."

Jon kissed her then and she kissed him back. He groped her breasts and moments later he was inside her, kissing and moaning into her mouth. Sansa cherished each moment and did not wish for it to end. Once it was over, once he spilled himself inside her, she laid her head on his chest and wished for the seed to take hold…to give him another prince or princess. Sansa hoped for that much as she felt the strength of his arms.

When she awoke to chirping birds and the sounds of the castle, Jon was not by her side. In the bed she saw the imprint of where he had lain and the windows were thrown open as well. The sun shone brightly into the chamber, the hearth had smoldered, and Sansa wondered where he had gone. Suddenly she heard orders from the courtyard so she threw on her nightclothes and furs to go see. When she looked out the window she saw the Royal Guard in the courtyard—all three-hundred were dressed in their fine new armor—and their grey cloaks flew in the wind with their spears reflecting the sun.

Jon was in-front of them in his armor with his shield, helm, and spear as well. His brown-black hair was down below his ear and never had she thought him so handsome. The council was gathered around them too and suddenly she saw Robb and Lyanna with them. Sansa dressed as quickly as she could, opting for a violet dress, and made her way to the courtyard. When she arrived, Lyanna and Robb ran over to her. Her boy had grown to become a man of eight-and-ten and her daughter six-and-ten. They had been told what was happening, what their father was going to do, and Robb said he wished to join them. "I want to learn to lead in battle," he expressed. "I want to go with you, Father." Jon could only tell him that no one else's sons were planning to go save one of the captains, a young lad named Martyn. Robb huffed and complained but did as bid.

With her children beside her Sansa gave her king a kiss and looked upon them all. The castle folk began to gather around doing their duties, and the whole council was now in the courtyard with Jon and his men. "Good king," one of them said. He was an old man with grey hair. "You cannot march during the Carneia. It is the law, Your Grace. The North must be at peace during this time. The army cannot be mustered."

"Nor shall it," Jon told him. "I've issued no such orders. I'm merely taking a walk."

"With the entire Royal Guard? They look as if they're going to battle."

"I insisted they joined him," Sansa said now. The council members looked upon her. "He is the King after all, and they are his royal guard. He cannot go on a walk without protection. Just call me a protective wife."

"We'd never doubt your word, my King," one of them replied. "Nor yours, my Queen. But if I may ask, where is it that you intend to walk?"

Jon stretched out his back as if he was preparing to walk. "Well, I haven't given any thought of it, but at this time of year I hear the coast near White Harbor is lovely. Mayhaps, I'll go there."

The remark earned sniggers from his royal guard. "You march to the Hot Gates!" one of the councilmen said. "This explains everything."

"What do we do?" another one asked.

"Nothing," the old councilmen with grey hair said. "What can we do?"

"What _can_ you do?" Jon mocked him. "We will need some new men to fill in the Royal Guard, my councilmen. My son Robb shall oversee this."

The councilmen with their faces of defeat walked away, muttering to themselves at how the Old Gods will remember this. Sansa paid them no mind, her children with them, as they ran over to Jon. He held his children in their embrace as Rickon said his final goodbyes before ordering the men to move out. Sansa watched the Royal Guard march through the gate and over the drawbridge, their marching echoing off the wall.

Once they withdrew from his embrace, Lyanna was crying but her brother remained strong. "Please come back, Papa," she muttered between cries. "I will wait everday from the ramparts until you do."

Jon smiled and kissed her forehead. "You will do no such thing. I would have you do what you love—ride horses and attend your studies. Enjoy being young, Lyanna. Before you know it you'll be a lady with a proper husband and family." Jon gripped his spear tighter and kissed his daughter again on the cheek this time. He reached over to grip their son's shoulder. "And you, my son, you are the Lord of Winterfell until my return. Lead with wisdom, listen to your councilmen and especially your mother."

Robb could only nod and gave him a hug. Sansa knew he would not cry until later when no one could see. When Sansa approached him her heart threatened to shatter into a million pieces. Jon smiled when he saw her and kissed her, saying, "And you, my lady, take care of our children."

"You know I will, my King." Sansa hugged him hard and felt tears stain the grey cloak that covered his shoulder. The breastplate felt rigged against her and it was cold as well. When she finished her embrace she kissed him once more and presented him with a necklace she had made. "I made you this," she told him. The necklace was made of sinew but at the end stood a direwolf fang. "It is a direwolf fang. I had it blessed and thought it would give you strength."

Jon smiled and said, "I love it." They embraced once more and afterwards slipped the necklace on around his neck. The fang rested softly against his breastplate. Jon looked to her and said, "Should I fall I want you to marry a good man, Sansa. I want to you to find love again."

Sansa could not fathom such a thing. "You will not fall, Jon."

"I know," he said with a soft smile. Behind those words Sansa felt as if he meant something by them, as if there was something he knew that she didn't.

She did not have enough time to ask him. Jon pulled from her embrace and gave them curt nods. Already the bells began to toll for Jon's departure with the Royal Guard and Sansa watched him march under the gate, and watched as they closed behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: GRRM owns all. F. Mill, too.**

 **Chapter 5**

 **Rickon**

First light, we march.

The men sang their songs as they marched down the grassy fields, the rolling hills, and their songs were the only thing filling the air. Rickon sang with them, sang until they could no longer do so. It was the only thing to pass the time…yet there was one man who did not sing. Only him. Only Jon. Only the King. He would march at the head of the column with his shield strapped to his back, his spear in one hand and helm in the other. His grey cloak would fly in the wind and they marched to battle, to victory. Rickon did not hope for such a thing but it was the only thing that kept him going, along with thoughts of his wife.

Rickon wondered how Jon must be feeling—how all the men save Martyn must be feeling—knowing that they may never see their wives again. Rickon knew his wife, Alys Karstark, was a strong woman but knew that even she would miss him. She had cried when he left her, as every lady wife did, and he felt bad for doing this to her. Even Rickon could not feel as strong without her warm embrace each night, but he did what he must. Rickon wondered if his king felt the same about his queen Sansa.

As they moved towards the Hot Gates a group of men were spotted down the field holding a banner with a white sun on a black field. _The Karstarks_ , he knew. When they greeted them, they kneeled to Jon and said it was an honor to fight along his side. Seeing as Rickon was married to his sister, he knew Lord Harrion Karstark would march to battle with them. They were dressed in their finest boiled leather and chainmail with shields, swords and spears to match. No cavalry was with them seeing as the terrain did not allow it. Another advantage the northmen would have against the men from the East.

"Lord Karstark, a pleasant surprise," the King had said upon greeting them. "I see you chose not to honor the Carneia."

"Much to the displeasure of my people, but it had to be done. We both know what happens if the North does not act."

"If only more shared your sentiment," Jon told him. Rickon looked and saw that Lord Harrion brought with him at least five-hundred men. They were boys, he saw, with a few seasoned men with him. _Mayhaps most did not want to dishonor the Gods._

"They brought only boys with them," Rickon heard some of his men grumble. "Many of them haven't seen many winters."

"Many of them probably haven't felt the warmth of a woman's thighs," grumbled Martyn as well.

"And what would you know about that, Martyn?" one chided him.

"Enough!" Rickon turned to whisper. His men kept quiet after that.

Upon seeing how few Jon brought, Harrion Karstark voiced his displeasure. "My king," he said with curteousy, "I cannot help but notice how little men you have brought. We were lead to believe you mustered half the North with you. We were told you were on the warpath."

"You couldn't have brought more than a couple of hundred!" a Karstark lad said. "We've been tricked."

"You bring only this handful against Mazor? His army is said to number in the hundreds of thousands. May I speak plainly, Your Grace?"

"Have you not been doing so already, Lord Karstark?" Jon retorted.

"We expected you to match your commitment with our own," Lord Harrion told Jon. "It is the Carneia, and we did not want to dishonor the gods but we did what we thought was right."

" _Respect your king!_ " Rickon barked at the lad. They grew quiet but Jon looked to him and raised a finger, commanding that he kept quiet.

King Jon said nothing and walked over to inspect the Karstark contingency. Most lads looked to the ground in respect, others were honored to be in the presence of the king. Jon looked at them up-and-down and asked a young lad who had no hair on his face, "You, lad, what is your trade?"

"I am a baker, Your Grace," he told him.

"And you?" Jon asked, pointing to another. "What is your trade?"

"I am a potter, Your Grace."

"And you?" Jon pointed to a third one. "Your trade?"

"A blacksmith."

Rickon knew what he was doing and so did Lord Karstark by the looks of it. The King of the North walked over to Lord Karstark, rested a hand on his shoulder and said, "These are my royal guard, the best I have to offer. More than mere blacksmiths or potters. Men who have dedicated their entire lives to war." Jon smirked. "You see, my friend, I brought more soldiers than you did."

The royal guard laughed and Lord Karstark said nothing, the look on his face clearly showing how abashed he was. His men sniggered and Rickon heard one grumble. "Kings always know what to say."

From Houses Flint and Glover, they came. From House Manderly and House Umber as well. Men came by the dozens and a few by the hundreds. These men were the only ones who would dare defy the gods to honor their king. But as the Karstarks did before them only green boys or old season soldiers came along on to face the East. Only men whose lives were dedicated to trade and not warfare. Rickon noticed this immediately—the jabbers, the quips, the jokes—it was as if war and death was some giant game to them. They laugh out loud promising that they will best one another at collecting eastern heads.

Two thousand strong, we march. Into hell's mouth, we march.

When they arrived at the Hot Gates a terrible storm was brewing on the coast. The two-thousand northmen marched through the narrow pass with the coast on one side and a mountain face on the other. The pass was narrow, narrow enough for the new fighting formation the phalanx, and too narrow for King Mazor to use calvary or his superior numbers against them.

When they set up camp a terrible storm had brewed on the coast. All the men watched the storm from the Cliffside: the waves, the rain, the lightning and wind. All the men rushed to bear witness, rushed to witness the unforgiving sea. Men had pointed out ships in the water being crushed by waves and winds. They were war ships, Rickon noticed. The men did as well and their sails carried sigils unknown to them. "It's the Eastmen!" some began to yell. Rickon partook with the men in celebration at watching Mazor's ships flounder in the channel. Some believed it was all of the ships he had to offer, but Rickon was not so stupid. It was a mere slice of all the men he brought with him yet that did not stop him from celebrating. Laughter and songs and praise for the gods will continue till the next day's dawn.

Only one of us keeps his reserve. Only him. Only the king.

Jon stood at the front of the coast watching the ships flounder into the sea. He held his shield high to cover his face, the rain moving around him. Rickon wondered about his thoughts in this moment. Wondered what he was thinking about, but part of him already knew. _He will think us fools_ , Rickon knew. _Young lads too young for this nonsense._

The next morning Jon called a meeting of the lords. He ordered Rickon and his men to build a wall to block the eastmen from flanking them. This wall would be right beside the pass and would funnel the eastmen into the pass, leaving them no choice but to attack the northmen head on. The northern wall, it was being called by the men. When asked what to use for the mortar, Lord Umber gave them an idea. It was not an idea that Jon would have liked but he saw the strategy behind it and relented.

Rickon set to his task and his men too. All day in the sun they built the wall using large stones found on the mountain side. By midday it was two men high and Jon wanted it to be five when it was done. The other men had gone out to find mortar, and when they returned the real work was done. Rickon and his men worked with no shirts yet wore their skits to keep cool. Suddenly Martyn had come to Rickon saying a messenger was coming down the pass.

Rickon wiped the sweat off his brow and handed a stone to one of his men, and towards the top they passed the rock. He looked down the pass and saw nothing, yet heard slow steps and the shouts of orders. Rickon knew they would not arrive until the end of the day and continued to build his wall. _The Karstarks left a surprise for them up the pass,_ Rickon thought to himself.

When they were finished it was about five men high and a sight to behold. The mortar made it smell, of course, but that couldn't be helped.

Rickon had been telling stories by the time the messenger arrived. The men of the royal guard were gathered around tired after building the wall all day. Some of the other northmen helped as well and they all listened to Rickon. He told them about King Robb and King Torrhen—Kings in the North who had defied odds to beat mighty leaders in battle. The men enjoyed those stories, they filled them with hope and courage to face the battles to come.

"Forward!" Rickon heard someone yell in a thick eastern accent. He and his men turned to see the eastern messenger being carried on a litter towards them. Rickon thought this bizarre, but figured since he did not have any horses that a litter would be the next best thing. He knew that the slave trade had been reestablished in the East after Daenerys had left. King Mazor restablished slavers bay and all the once Free Cities were no longer free, all having either bowed or surrendered to this mad king's will.

This messenger was a tall man, dark of skin carrying a thick leather whip to urge his men forward. He wore armor made of hide but none on his arms or legs. " _I am the emissary!_ " he yelled to them with a crack of his whip. "I have come to speak with this King in the North on behalf of King Mazor!"

Rickon and his men ignored him, going back to his stories. But the emissary continued, "I demand to speak with your King!"

Having grown annoyed with this man, Rickon looked to one of his men and nodded for his sword. The lad did as bid, unsheathing it and handing it to Rickon. Rickon Stark stood from the ground and walked towards the emissary, sword in hand. "Listen!" the emissary continued. "Do you think those dozen men you slaughtered and skewered, laying them on the pass for us to see, scares us? These hills swarm with our scouts!"

With his sword resting easy in his hand, Rickon continued to approach the man while he eyed him warily. The emissary said, "And do you think this pathetic wall you've built will do anything to stop us? It will only delay the inevita-"

On his face Rickon saw the shock for the emissary was at a loss for words. _He's noticed the dead scouts, I see._ "We built this wall using stones from the North itself. And with a little northern ingenuity, your King Mazor's dead scouts supplied a very nice mortar. I do say their bodies do keep these stones together."

The emissary's face contorted in shock, disgust, and anger. "You will pay for your barbarism!" The whip he was holding moved back, ready to strike Rickon in a moment's notice. With nothing to lose Rickon ran towards the man, running on a stone to leap in the air and meet the man's strike. The shock ran through Rickon's arm, the blood splayed on his face. The emissary yelled as his arm laid by his side, cut off at the elbow still gripping the whip.

"My arm!" the emissary yelled. On his face was sweat and pain. The men who had escorted the men lowered their wicker shields and spears to face the northmen, while the northmen faced them carrying spears and swords of their own.

"It's not yours anymore," Rickon quipped. He pointed his sword at the emissary's face, slick with the man's blood. "Go tell your god king that he faces free men here, men willing to die to protect their kingdom. Not slaves who fear their master's lash! Do it, quickly. Go tell him before we decide to make our wall just a little bit bigger."

The emissary looked at him with nothing but hate. "Not slaves, no. Your women will be slaves. Your sons and daughters and brothers and elders will be slaves. But not you. By noon on the morrow you will be dead men! All of the East has been gathered to descend upon you. Our arrows will blot out the sun!"

"Then we will fight in the shade."

Once the emissary had been taken away, whimpering with his men, King Jon had called a meeting of the lords. On a small cliff face overlooking the pass, Jon stood in his grey woolen cloak with the lords. They had overseen the exchange with the emissary, and Lord Jon Umber had congratulated Rickon for his quip. "Be wary," Jon had warned. "These corwards will use arrows, and I hear they use them well. We have no archers here with us, only spearmen and javelins. Let their arrows fly. Stay out of sight until their charge. When they meet us at the narrow pass we will hit them with all we've got."

"But we are too few," said Lord Flint. "There are only two-thousand of us, King Jon. It is not enough to hold back two hundred thousand. We will be out of javelins after their first charge."

"We will use the javelins and spears of the dead eastmen," Lord Umber proposed.

They spoke about the battle plan and they said each men would be rotated in and out of battle. The royal guard would hold the pass first, and when Mazor would send forward to collect his dead to attack once more, they would rotate a fresh group of northmen to continue battle. Given enough time, King Jon said, the eastern army would demoralize and lose all heart. They would leave these shores with their tail between their legs. The king had been training the rest of the northmen in the ways of the phalanx. Rickon hoped the lessons would take root in time for battle.

It was Lord Manderly who said, "But this all depends on them not finding a way to surround us from the rear. If that were to happen this whole strategy would crumble."

"I agree," said the King. "Is there something you wish to share with us, Lord Manderly?"

Lord Wylis Manderly was a quiet and timid man, Rickon knew. It was a wonder he did not accept King Mazor's offer, but with the might of King Jon protecting him he would stay loyal. Lord Jon Umber had said that Lord Wylis was a corward, a man who could not be trusted. Rickon did not know.

"Yes," Lord Wylis replied. "There is a small path that leads around the mountain and they could use it to outflank and surround us."

Jon thought on it and replied, "I thought there was such a path. Lord Manderly, I want you to take your men and hold that path should King Mazor catch wind about it. We will need to hold it at all costs."

Lord Wylis nodded when suddenly the ground began to shake. Rocks flew from above, tiny pebbles jumped off the ground. Rickon kept steady and everyone was giving each other queer looks. But the King stood from his spot and looked down at the narrow pass called the Hot Gates.

"Is this an earthquake?" asked Lord Karstark.

King Jon Stark turned to face them. "No, Lord Karstark. This is no earthquake. These are battle formations."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: GRRM owns all.**

 **Chapter 6**

 **Jon**

The first day. A beast approaches.

Savoring the meal to come, it's so massive it shakes the earth with its march. A force of men, an army, vast beyond imagining. It is poised to devour the North, the Seven Kingdoms, and to obtain retribution against Daenerys for inciting that rebellion in the East all those years ago.

In his new helm Jon's vision was narrowed, but even out of the two slits Jon could see the massive horde coming at them. The men of King Mazor wore nothing but simple garbs made of linen, cotton garbs that covered their heads and face, and their weapons were simple spears with wicker shields. _They shall prove no match for castle-forged steel._ From the distance one could hear the shouts and orders coming from the eastmen, their song was one of fear. _Forcing men to fight produces little warriors._

The wind from the coast made his cloak billow and Jon only stood there his spear firmly gripped in his hand. His breastplate felt light against his chest, and his greaves on both his legs and arms felt light as well. His three-hundred were with him, only they were with him. They were in the narrow pass waiting to fight their enemy, hearts joined in silent song. Shoulder to shoulder, shield to shiled, they stood in formation. Next to Jon was Rickon his most loyal captain and warrior. His auburn hear came out from under his helm and from the looks of it he was somewhat nervous. He looked to Jon, his blue eyes piercing out of the darkness of his helm along with his auburn stubble. Jon gave him a nod.

The eastmen kept coming forward.

" _This is where we hold them!_ " Jon yelled for his three-hundred to hear, jabbing his spear into the ground. He looked onwards towards the coming eastern horde. " _This is where we fight!_ _This is where they die!_ "

" _Earn these shields, boys!_ " Rickon yelled, turning to his men with his grey shield held high.

" _Ahooooooo!_ " the men chanted in reply, raising their shields as one.

Jon turned to his men and his three-hundred stared back at him through their grey helms. In the slits he could see all different eyes staring back at him. His most seasoned men seemed poised and eager for battle, yet others seemed somewhat nervous facing so many men. Jon gave them a nod and said, "Remember this day, men. This is the day the histories will remember us forever. It will be yours for all time."

Jon turned around to see the eastmen had stopped some one-hundred yards away from them. They opened in the middle and man on horseback came through, wearing bronze armor with a bronze helm. He was an officer, Jon knew.

"Northmen, lay down your opens!" he ordered with a thick accent. His horse swayed to-and-fro.

Rickon looked back to one of his men. "Give me a javelin," he ordered. "I will give this man our reply."

"You mean to hit him from such a distance, ser?" Martyn asked. In his eyes Jon saw a green fear. It was such a long time since Jon felt that same fear.

Jon could not see, but under his helm he knew Rickon was smirking. "That's exactly what I meant to do, Martyn."

With javelin in hand Rickon stepped forward, ran and threw the javelin. Jon watched with his three-hundred as the javelin whizzed in the air. The eastmen were watching, too, and before they knew it their officer was dead on the ground with the javelin in his chest. The men cheered and Rickon took his place back in formation.

Jon knew what to say. "Come and get them!"

Warhorns blew, loud and bolstering, and the eastmen began to charge at them with war cries and yells. Jon gave Rickon a nod and the men entered the phalanx formation. Shield locked against shield, shoulder against shoulder, and spears stuck out from underneath looking like a sewing pin. Within this narrow pass they were close together just as Uthero had recommended. From above his shoulder Jon could see spears from overhead, where they would jab at the enemy and he just gripped his spear watching the eastmen inch closer and closer. Most of them were raising their spears or swords and yelling at him, others he could not see due to the garbs they wore to cover their faces.

Jon remained calm in this moment and held his spear forward. He could not show his men any weakness, could not show that he was not in control. As they loomed closer Jon tightened his stance and thought of Sansa and his children one last time.

"Steady, men!" Jon yelled. "Steady!"

Like a wave they crashed on top of the formation. Jon felt like twenty stone was pushing his shield and behind him he could feel the push coming from his men. His feet were being pushed back in the dirt, yet Jon and his men maintained their form. Uthero had been training them for this moment. Grunts came from the eastmen as their shields battered against the northmens. Some cursed, some grunted, and some tried to jab at them with their spears. Back-and-forth they pushed each other with no one seeming to gain any traction.

"Push!" Rickon ordered. "Push!"

He could feel himself being pushed forward by the shield of the man behind him, and knew they had to wait for the proper moment to open their shields and strike. If it was too early the formation could collapse, if they waited too long they would be pushed back too far and the men would not have the strength to push back. Jon had to wait for his moment.

And it was now.

" _Now!_ " Jon yelled through his teeth. Suddenly his feet stopped in the dirt and he pushed his shield forward, shoving an eastmen back. The whole front line did this as one, opening their shields and stabbing the man in front of them. Jon watched as his spear went through the belly of a eastmen, the shock running through his arm, and the blood splaying everywhere. The man grunted and fell to the ground when he yanked his spear out.

From overhead Jon saw a spear flash forward, striking an eastmen in the throat before being yanked out. Again the men of King Mazor fell on their shields like a wave and Rickon yelled, " _Push!_ " As one the phalanx pushed the men back with their shields and jabbed them with their spears into heads, chests, and bellies. The spearheads flashed in the sunlight but were slicked with blood soon after.

Like waves crashing upon the shore the eastmen kept coming, only for Jon and his three-hundred to push them back with their shields and jab at them with their spears. The pass was narrow enough to hold ten-and-five men abreast, shoulder to shoulder, and with their shields overlapping like dragon scales it was impossible for the eastmen to penetrate them. Jon pushed another man with his shield and jabbed him with his spear in the face when he noticed a northman using his sword to kill three eastmen. His spear was broken and as soon as he was done killing those men, the northmen covered him with their shields.

Moving as one unit they pushed back, stabbed with their spears, and yanked them out. One-by-one the eastmen fell in large numbers their wicker shields and thin cotton garbs were no match for castle-forged steel. It was becoming a slaughter and Jon looked to his side to see his men becoming blood drunk—drunk on the slaughter in front of them. The eastmen were being pushed back, stumbling over their own dead as they did, and Jon and his three-hundred walked out of the narrow pass in formation to push them to retreat.

Jon with his three-hundred stepped out into the pass, pushing eastmen with his shield to stab them with his spear and his men followed suit. Shoulder to shoulder, shield against shield, eyes locked on those of our hated enemies, relishing in their mounting terror, we strike at them. Joined, fused, a single creature—indivisible, impenetrable, unstoppable-we push.

As they pushed the eastmen back he could hear groans from the wounded on the ground below him. He paid them no attention as only slaughter was on his mind. With each stab of his spear the eastmen would fall to the ground with fear, eyes rolling back to their head. His men were relishing in this too and Jon only hoped they could keep formation as they pushed the eastmen back.

" _Keep in formation!_ " Jon ordered and his men rallied to him. Rickon finished stabbing a man to the ground, blood sprayed on his helm and he gave Jon a nod. " _Keep formation!_ " he echoed as well.

They kept in formation but the eastmen kept coming, as if their numbers never ended. Jon's arm began to ache from all the stabbing and pushing but he paid it no mind. The slaughter was upon him and there was nothing he could do. His men began to lose mind of this as well and soon their formation began to crumble. It was such a mindless slaughter that Jon did not care. The eastmen were too weak to defeat them.

Jon pushed a eastmen down with his shoulder, stabbing the man in the belly with the butt of his spear which had a small iron-tipped end to it. "No prisoners!" he yelled.

"No mercy!" Rickon echoed.

His men shouted in reply and the slaughter continued. Jon did not know what came over him next as he broke formation, running towards the eastmen who were coming at them while their fellow men-at-arms were retreating in fear. " _Jon!_ " he could hear Rickon yell from behind but Jon ignored him. " _Protect the King!_ "

An eastmen ran at him, eyes wild and sword raised to strike. Jon deflected his blow with his shield and stabbed him in the belly with his spear. The man groaned loudly and fell to the ground when Jon yanked it out, fresh blood dousing it. As soon as he yanked it out he saw another eastmen come at him with his sword raised as well. His blow grazed over Jon's shield and just as quick his spear met the eastmen's chest. The man yelped and Jon pulled it out violently, sending the men to his death. Again another eastmen came running at him this time with his weapon raised high. He snapped it forward and Jon raised his shield to meet him. The shock of the spear hitting his shield sent a shock down his arm, but quick as a viper Jon raised it up to stab the man.

The spear penetrated the eastmen's neck and the man had no time to utter any sound. Jon pulled it out, stood to his feet and saw two eastmen coming at him with swords drawn as well. Around him his men were enjoying a butchery of giant proportions. Out of formation they stabbed with their spears, caved in heads with shields, and some even slaughtered many with their swords.

Jon thought to do the same. _If only Sansa could see me now_. Jon raised his spear over his shoulder, light as a feather and threw it forward. It landed into the chest of one of the running warriors of King Mazor and the man fell on the ground. More came running at him and Jon drew his sword.

It felt light in his hand as he threw one man over him with his shield. Another came running at him with a sword in hand, yelling wildly, and Jon deflected his blow only to send his sword into the man's neck. Three more men came at him and Jon killed them just as easily. One man he killed shoving his sword into his belly, another slashing it across his neck and the third he stabbed in the heart.

A eastmen came running at him and Jon only raised his shield to send the man into the ground. The shock ran into his arm and chest, but the only thing left to do was to shove his sword into the man's belly and so he did. The blood splayed onto his arm while the man laid on the ground. He let out a moan and died. Jon looked up, his helm felt heavy and his horse crest bounced. The eastmen before him all sported looks of fear and Jon could only growl at them. _They're near the edge of the cliff_ , Jon noticed.

Jon pulled out his sword and his three-hundred came up beside him. Rickon did as well, catching his breath with fresh blood on his sword. "Back in formation!" Jon yelled and the men did as ordered. Shields overlapping shields, shoulder to shoulder, they cornered the remaining eastmen towards the edge of the cliff.

"They look quite thirsty," Rickon said.

"Well let's quench their thirst," Jon japed. He turned back to his men, most had blood on their armor, shields, spears, and swords—even Martyn did as well, catching his breath. "To the cliffs!"

The eastmen gasp, groan, gurgle, scream, stumble, tumble, and fall as the three-hundred royal guard send them down the cliff to their deaths. Brains splattered against the briny stone, lungs sucking deep of the deadly, salty sea. Jon hacked at those in front of him with his sword preferring to give them cleaner deaths, but he had to send a point to Mazor. The three-hundred laugh like fools and keep pushing. No prisoners. No mercy.

Once it was over Rickon said, "We're off to one hell of a good start."

Jon nodded and the men retook formation on the pass. A distant horn calls and suddenly they hear a thousand harpies screech. _Arrows…_ Jon looks up to the sky with his men and sees the black bolts arching towards them. The sky goes dark. A thicket rises.

"Take cover!" Rickon yells and the men fall to command. Jon goes to the ground, raising his shield over his head to cover him. His men do the same and the arrows rain down upon them. Most thud on the ground, some thud into his shield and some even break on impact bouncing off the helms and armor. "Cowards!" Jon could hear some of his men mutter. But the northmen used archers, too.

Once it was over Jon arose to his feet with his men using a spear he had recovered from the ground to break the arrows lodged into his shield. He bid his men back into formation, shield against shield and shoulder against shoulder. Before him he could see more men coming at them, the same lightly armored men they had just slaughtered and Jon looks upon them. The entire east descends upon them; howling like mad men. The entire army of all of Essos united under one king—pledging to make the Seven Kingdoms pay for what Daenerys and Aegon did—pledging to crush the impertinent kingdoms of Westeros. To make slaves of them all.

Jon looked back to his men, who were eager to fight some more. "Today, no northmen dies!"

They overlapped their shields into the phalanx formation, covering the length of the pass. Jon knew his other bannermen would want a go at the eastmen but today his royal guard would have the glory. _They'll have more chances for slaughter but today belongs to us._ They hold their ground and the eastmen crash into them, only to be pushed back by shields and stabbed with spears. There's no break in action—not one moment to shed the weight of our shields or seek an instant's relief from the kiln-hot iron of our helms. No chance to catch their breath. No time to slow their pounding hearts. Jon's three-hundred tried to keep up with him the best they could and would die for him. Like an angry ocean heaving wave after wave against an unyielding cliff, they shatter with each advance. We do what we were trained to do. What we loved to do. What most of us trained our whole lives for.

No prisoners. No mercy. As Rickon said, it was a good start.

Once they were defeated the eastmen retreated back to their camps. By now it was afternoon and there was no sign of movement coming from Mazor and his men. Jon and his men set their shields down, pulled off their helmets and shook away the sweat. Some tended to their wounds and others set forward to put the finishing touches on this morning's work. No prisoners. No mercy. Mazor had to receive that message that no comfort was to be given to a foreign invader, no mercy for his men. Rickon and the Royal Guard set to the task of killing the wounded yet groaning on the battlefield. Seagulls set to nibbling on the dead and their caws could be heard along with the rustling of the sea.

Jon stood there as Rickon plunged his spear into a wounded eastmen. The apple was of good taste and when he bit down on it, Jon thought he had never tasted something so sweet. In one hand was his apple, in another his horse hair crested helm. The grey cloak felt nice against his shoulders and his armor was warm from the sun.

Rickon stepped over a dead warrior of Mazor, plunging his spear into a wounded man who had been crawling away from him. When he pulled his spear out, Rickon looked to Jon with his auburn hair matted against his head. "The Karstarks are getting twitchy, Sire. The rest of the northerners want a crack at Mazor's men. They wonder why they're even here."

"Good," Jon replied, after biting down on his apple. He chewed and swallowed. "I've got a flanking maneuver in mind for them—and I want them eager. Tell Lord Karstark to have them sober and ready for the next charge. While you're at it, get their help pilling the corpses onto that mound. Stack them high." Jon looked down the pass to see a young lad coming at them, grey cloak bellowing in the wind. It was Martyn. "Well, looks like Martyn has something to tell us."

When the boy arrived he stopped to catch his breath. "King Jon!"

"Martyn. Catch your breath, boy."

"Yes, my king." He pointed behind him with his spear. "Eastmen approach, my king. A small contigent—too small for an attack."

"Perhaps they want a chat or mayhaps some ointment after today's arse kicking."

Rickon laughed and Martyn smirked. Jon said, "I'm on my way to greet them. Rickon, you're in charge."

"But, King Jon—"

"Relax," Jon said to calm him. "If they assassinate me, all of the North will go to war along with the South. Daenerys and Aegon won't let that pass without retribution. Pray they're that stupid. Pray we're that lucky." Rickon's face was in shock but he understood. "Besides, we should show them that famous northern hospitatlity of ours. We can be civil, can't we?"

"Yes, my King," Rickon replied, stabbing another wounded man with his spear.

Jon held his helm in one hand and marched further down the pass. The cool wind hit his face, the seagulls cawed, and underneath his boots he felt the gravel crunch. His grey cloak bellowed in the wind and Jon saw a throne emerge in the distance. It was a throne of moderate size made of wicker and wood. Men held it hoisted in the air on all sides and around him were enough guards to protect him with wicker shields and spears. On the throne was an olive-skinned man in lavish garbs with a full brown beard. Some of his beard was braided but most wasn't. On his head was a crown made of gold, simple enough with jewels ordaining it. _It's King Mazor_ , Jon realized. He was to treat with this King of the East. Jon did not think him to look so simple—he heard the man dressed in lavish robes made of gold wearing nothing but the finest jewelry. It looks as if he was wrong.

When Jon approached the eastmen lowered their spears at him, and Jon said nothing. He locked eyes with this King Mazor who only stared back at him. "Let me guess," Jon said, pointing at the man. "You must be this King Mazor I've heard so much about."

The King gripped the arm rests of his throne and stood up. The guards around him got down on all fours to make a stairs for him. He stood on their backs and soon his feet touched on the ground. Mazor wore leather sandals with his fine garbs, but the garbs themselves were light enough for the northern climate.

King Mazor came up to Jon, saying, "Jon Targaryen, let us reason together." The man's voice was rough and smooth like leather. He spoke the Common Tongue with an accent but his understanding of the language was very good. "It would be a regrettable waste—it would be nothing short of madness—were you and your valiant troops to perish, all because of a simple misunderstanding."

"Don't worry about us. We're having the time of our lives."

"There is that famous northern wit," he replied with a laugh. "You utter brave words to mask your fear. I say the North is a fascinating land with fascinating people. There is much both our cultures could share."

"We've been sharing our culture with you all morning. Your men can attest to that."

"Enough sarcasm," Mazor said, his face turning to stone. "I hear you're a man of logic and reason, I suggest you apply it. Consider the North you love so much—this land you so vigorously defend—reduced to nothing but ash. Consider the fate of your women and children."

Jon did not feel threatened. "Aye, I know what fates you have for them. You nail children to trees, you rape women and make them into sex slaves for your men. You burn the elderly alive and smash babies against the ground. I've grown up hearing about monsters like you, and I know that those who think themselves too big to fall always falls the hardest."

Mazor huffed. "I am not this monster you think of me as, Jon Targaryen. Not this dishonorable fiend you've been led to believe I am. I could easily have finished you off with my thousands of archers, but in the time honored tradition of eastern warfare we face our enemies up close, not with arrows." He put his hands behind his back, looking at Jon and continued, "And as for those tales that Daenerys and Aegon have spun about me—tales that make me seem like this monster who nails children to trees—they're all lies. Lies, I tell you. Lies they made up about me to recruit men and women into that slave rebellion they led all those years ago. Tell me, King Jon, what would you do in my position? Half of my bannermen want revenge, the other half want more lands and power. Without them I am not a king and a king without his people is a king without power. I have a wife and five children. I love them just as much as you do your wife and children. What makes me so different from you?"

Jon didn't know what to think of him. Mayhaps Daenerys had lied. He did not know. "Rebellion or not, it is no reason to invade the North. We had no involvement in this rebellion Daenerys started."

"But the North lies in my way. I cannot invade anywhere else. King's Landing will be protected, the Stormlands too dangerous to land my giant fleet. Dorne's landscape is too dangerous to lead my vast army and I do not have time to sail all away around Westeros. The North is where I could invade and the North is where I intend to start this war. I will take it, I will."

Jon laughed. "I fear you will have a hard time in doing so. Judging by the way your men fought this morning I should have just brought the northern women to fight them. I fear they will have done the job just as well. You see, Mazor, you have many men but few soldiers. And it won't be long before they fear my spears more than your whips."

Mazor smiled, but his smile was one out of appreciation or just mockery. "It's not the lash they fear, but my divine power." He rested a hand on Jon's shoulder, looking him in the eye. "The red priests and priestesses of Asshai have spun tales about how the Red God has chosen me to rule his lands. How I have this divine power. Men are easily fooled, Jon Targaryen. Tell a lie enough times and they will believe it to be the truth. But I am a generous god, so they say, and I can make you rich beyond measure." Mazor put his hands behind his back again. "I can make you King of the Seven Kingdoms, carrying my battle standard into battle. I will spare your people and your kingdoms if you but kneel at my feet."

"That's quite the offer, I'd be crazy to refuse it." Jon held his helm closer to his body. "But this kneeling business—I'm afraid killing all of those men this morning left me with a nasty cramp in my leg. I can't kneel today. I think I may have to go walk it off."

Mazor's face contorted into displeasure. "You sadden me, King Jon. I thought you were a man of reason."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"No matter," he replied. He pointed a finger at Jon. "Just know that as I am generous, so am I wrathful. Once my men take this kingdom of yours I will have all of its histories erased, I will have all of your deeds erased as well. Just uttering your name will be punishable by losing a hand. There will be no glory in your sacrifice. No one will ever know."

"Oh, they'll know," Jon quipped. He turned around to walk away, but turned his head back to Mazor. "Watch your back. Your men look nervous."

As Jon rushed back to the northmen he thought about Mazor. He noticed that Mazor betrayed a fatal flaw: hubris. _Hubris_ , Jon thought. _The man thinks himself a god. What a fool. He thinks he can't lose. He thinks he's already won. He'll take the bait, I know he will._

When Jon returned his men had just about finished the wall of corpses. It was stacked at least five to seven men high and Rickon stood atop of it, adding more corpses to the wall. He looked down at Jon and so did his men. Jon only said, "Pile those eastmen mighty high. Unless I miss my guest, we are in for one wild night."

 _Mazor will send his best at us_ , Jon knew. _He will send the Immortals_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: GRRM owns all.**

 **Chapter 7**

 **Rickon**

In silence, they marched.

Wordless—their form faultless—moving in such perfect unison each collective step srikes the earth like a blow from a blacksmith's hammer. The personal guard to King Mazor himself. The eastern warrior elite. The deadliest fighting force in all of Essos.

The immortals.

Rickon had heard about them from Uthero when he arrived in Winterfell. They carry swords and shields made of wood and wicker; they wear brown cotton head garbs with shifts to cover their faces made of black linen. The armor they wear is mostly black cotton to cover their arms, neck and legs-but with a breastplate made of layers of leather to protect themselves. The immortals march as one unit in complete silence; a tatic, Uthero said, to frighten their enemies. When asked why they were called immortals, Uthero explained that King Mazor liked to keep their numbers only at 10,000—never going under that number. "As soon as one of them is killed, another is ready to take their place," Uthero had said. "Some say they can't be killed."

Now while we are fresh and at our full strength—before wounds and weariness have taken its toll—the mad king throws the best he has at us. Rickon hugged the wall of corpses with his king and his royal guard. They would not fight in the phalanx formation but in hand-to-hand combat using the narrowness of the pass as their advantage. Uthero said the immortals fight as one unit, but catch them off guard or get them to a one-on-one fight and their advantage is lost.

The sun had fallen from the sky, allowing moonlight to be their guide. Rickon held his shield and sword close to him, eyeing Jon who was right next to him. The King kept his poise, hugging the corpse wall as well. As the Immortals approached in silence Rickon eyes his men who were going through pre-battle jitters, he knew. The immortals had been talked about from Winterfell to the Hot Gates. It was the best the East had to throw at us. Rickon heard them stop marching at once when they reached the wall. All he could hear was their breathing. It was then he heard them all draw their swords in once swift moment. And now hubris would be their undoing. Mazor has taken the bait. And now the trap has been sprung.

" _Northmen!_ " Jon yelled. " _Push!_ "

All three-hundred of Winterfell's royal guard pushed the wall of corpses with all their strength. Rickon did the same and suddenly the wall fell down on top of the immortals violently. The men drew their swords, some used their spears, and ran down the pile of corpses to meet the immortals in battle. When Rickon saw them he did not think them too frightening—the only thing that was bizarre is how they did not make a single sound. Jon lead the charge down the wall holding his shield in one hand and his spear in the other. His black horse-haired crest bobbed as he lunged forward to stab an immortal who was pinned by the corpses. He pulled it out violently and growled.

Immortals. We put their name to the test.

The royal guard rushed at them, swords drawn and spears ready. Rickon rushed forward with them and the immortals charged to meet them. He watched as one royal guard blocked a blow with his shield, stabbing the immortal with his spear. Another used his shield to strike an immortal in the neck, his grey cloak wrapping around him as he did. An immortal came at Rickon with his sword drawn making no sounds. Rickon parried the strike with his shield and stabbed the immortal in the neck. Soon the battle became furious and it was not as easy as this morning.

The Royal Guard took casualties as well.

It took them time to get organized and there were more immortals than northmen, but the narrow pass stopped them from being surrounded. Rickon had finished stabbing an immortal in the stomach when he saw one of his men block a sword slash with his shield only to be stabbed in the back with a spear. Another had been thrown to the ground by three immortals, only to be stabbed in the belly through the breast plate with two swords. Rickon even saw one man slashed in the legs with a spear only for another immortal to stab him in the neck. Their losses were few, but each loss was either a dearest cousin or friend.

But the King fought like a mad man, as if he were twenty men in one. King Jon used his shield to block blows and jabbed his spear wildly. He would slash immortals in the neck by swinging the iron-tip, stab those in the face who would dare approach him, and stabbed many in the chest as well. Rickon did his part and killed many immortals. One immortal had tried to slash him in the face only for Rickon to block his blow with his shield, turn around and stab the immortal in the chest with his sword. Rickon noticed that Martyn had just finished stabbing an immortal in the neck, but did not notice the other coming at his backside. Rickon ran over to the immortal and before he could kill Martyn stabbed the whoreson in the stomach with his sword.

Rickon looked to Martyn and nodded, stabbing another immortal in the chest who was trying to run up from behind and kill him. As Rickon pulled out his sword he heard Martyn yell, " _Captain Rickon!_ "

Rickon heard a loud thud, as if someone had collided with his shield and noticed Martyn beside him with his shield raised. An immortal was on the ground and Rickon realized that Martyn had saved his life. Rickon shoved his sword into the stomach of the immortal and Martyn in his neck. Martyn looked to Rickon and nodded, sporting a devilish grin. Rickon only nodded back in gratitude. _Where is the King?_ Rickon thought.

He left Martyn and heard a loud growl. Rickon looked around to see the battle unfold and saw the royal guard were now gaining the upperhand. A few of them laid dead on the floor, covered in their greycloaks, but a lot of them were dead immortals. A growl was heard once more and Rickon saw before him one tall immortal—almost as tall as Hodor had been—and he was carrying a giant battle axe. With each step he loomed closer and suddenly Rickon saw an immortal coming at him. He swung at Rickon's head with his sword, but he ducked to dodge it. The immortal than hit Rickon in the head with his fist, taking off his helm. Rickon shook his head and slashed down to cut the immortal in the leg. Before he could react Rickon slashed the whoreson in his face.

The immortal dropped dead and from the corner of his eye Rickon saw another running at him. Rickon turned to his left and raised his shield to hit the immortal in the throat with all his force. The silent warrior fell on his back and Rickon stabbed him in the chest with his sword. As soon as he yanked it out another immortal came at him. Rickon hit him in the face once with his shield and the other time with his swordhand. The blow knocked the black linen off to reveal the immortals face. He was just a man, Rickon, saw but he had no hair on his head or face. The moment left Rickon speechless, but he wasted no time in stabbing the man in his stomach. When Rickon pulled it out he felt himself being tackled to the ground. When he looked up he saw an immortal looming over him, sword raised in silence. Rickon crossed his arms to cover his face, hoping his greaves would offer him some protection.

But it was not necessary.

Just as sudden as the immortal had raised his sword, he was stabbed in the neck with a spear. In shock, Rickon looked to see who had saved him and it was Jon. From under his helm Jon's mouth was contorted in anger. He pulled the spear out of the immortals neck violently and then stabbed the man in his belly. Once the immortal was on the ground dead Jon stood over Rickon, offering his spear to help him off the ground. Rickon took it sporting a smile and arose onto his feet to nod to Jon in-gratitude. Jon smirked and nodded as well, but Rickon saw something gleaming coming at them.

From behind his king he saw the giant immortal throw his battle axe at Jon. Rickon grabbed his brother-cousin by the shoulders pushing him down to the ground just in-time so the axe could go flying overhead. The giant immortal was running at them now with a sword in hand and came after Rickon. Rickon Stark grabbed his sword from off the ground and held it high to meet the giant immortal's blow. The shock ran down his arm when steel met steel, sending the shock down even to his chest. Rickon looked up at the immortal in terror but the big bugger did nothing—he only kicked Rickon in the chest sending him onto his back and on top of the wall of corpses.

Rickon shook his head, feeling dizzy and dazed, to watch the battle play out before him. The royal guard were fighting as demons, sending many immortals to their deaths. They stabbed, slashed and hacked and Rickon felt a swell of pride. He looked forward to see Jon facing the giant immortal, holding his spear and shield to face him. The giant immortal growled when Jon stabbed at him with his spear. The big bugger only grabbed the spear in mid-jab and cut it in half with his sword. He then proceeded to hack and slash at Jon, who dodged each blow. He ducked, moved right, moved left, and even moved his leg when the immortal tried to hack at that. The giant immortal then sent two strong blows onto Jon's shield, sending him down to his knees.

"My King!" Rickon heard someone yell. One of the royal guard came running at the giant immortal, who only turned around and hit the lad in the face with his sword. He turned around to face Jon again who was now on his feet with his sword in hand. The giant immortal rained down two more blows onto him but Jon blocked those with his shield. Jon parried one blow, ducked down to slash the immortal in his leg and then reached up to stab him in the arm. The giant immortal cried out but pulled the sword out of his arm slowly, throwing it to the ground. He then raised his sword over his head and came down at Jon who raised his shield to block the blow. The immortal hated that and then took his shield, throwing Jon and it to the side as if he was a rag doll.

On the ground Jon scurried, finding a sword to grasp. Rickon could only watch as he was too dizzy to even stand up. When Jon turned around, sword raised, he met the immortals blow just in time. The giant immortals sword hit the sword and even grazed his blow over Jon's eye. Were it not for the helm Jon would have lost his eye, but the steel helm saved it and made a loud screech when the sword cut into it. Jon laid on the ground now, moving from side to side as the giant immortal tried to stab him. Losing patience the giant son of a whore pressed his body down onto Jon's, their faces almost meeting. It was in this moment Jon reached over and grabbed what looked like a spearhead, stabbing it into the giant immortals eye. When he did that the big fucker yelled, reaching up to pull it out of his eye socket.

Suddenly Jon reached up, sword in hand and sliced the giant immortals neck open. Blood splayed everywhere when he did that and the giant fell to the ground with a big thud. Jon stood to his feet with his sword in hand, yelling, " _Lord Karstark! Now!"_

Rickon watched as Lord Karstark and his men came running out of the small hole in the Cliffside. They had come up with this plan earlier in the day where at the right time Lord Karstark would come out of there to hit the immortals in their flank. By the dozens they spilled out from the side splitting the immortal force in two. In their boiled leather and chainmail they shouted, cursed, and stabbed wildly. The Karstarks fought more like brawlers than warriors. They were brave men, though, who did their part.

Rickon stood up from the pile of corpses, grabbed his shield, sword and made for the king. Jon rallied his men and put on his helm, watching the Karstarks attack the immortals. Rickon came up beside him and nodded; Jon smiled at Rickon and nodded back. On Jon's helm Rickon saw the giant scratch left by the immortals sword, and underneath that he saw a fresh cut under his eye from the blow as well. Jon gripped a spear in one hand, held his shield in another and without warning charged at the immortals to fight alongside the Karstarks in battle. Rickon and his royal guarded followed suit charging alongside their king to meet them. He hit an immortal in the face with the edge of his shield, slashed another one in his neck with his sword.

The immortals stopped in their tracks in front of the royal guard after Rickon killed his man, looking at them in what Rickon thought was terror. Jon and him rallied their men, turned their shields to face them, huddling shoulder to shoulder. The immortals charged at them and crashed on their shields like waves. Men stabbed at them overheard with spears, others hacked at them with swords. But each time Rickon, the king, and the royal guard beat them back. The Karstarks fought them as well and cut them off from further attacks. After enough slaughter the immortals retreated and they killed the stragglers.

Triumph. The day is ours.

The dread immortals slink back to their camp like whipped dogs—and every warrior of Mazor sees this. Rickon wonders how this god king felt, wondered how he felt seeing his best troops so easily bested in battle. _I'm sure he is feeling a very human chill crawl up his spine._

Even as we rub oil into stiffened muscles and seal torn flesh with red-hot iron—even as we bid farewell to our honored dead—each hour brings good tidings. Scouts had reported that there was an open revolt in Mazor's camp and he had begun to kill his own troops who dared to defy him. The men had cheered at the news saying there was nothing that could stop them, but Rickon told them not to get cocky.

The men celebrated that night around the campfires, singing, dancing, and cheering. Royal Guard and Karstark alike boasted about their kills in battle, while others enjoyed an ale or two. King Jon had forbidden getting drunk the night before battles and the men obeyed. "Who will Mazor dare to dispatch next?" someone had boasted. "Who will he dare send against the might of the North?"

The men continued to celebrate and Rickon did with them. But off in the distance he saw Jon looked at the coast by himself. Even he allowed himself to hope, Rickon knew, for more than just glory. Such a mad hope, but there it is. Against Essos' endless hordes—against all odds—we can hold the hot gates.

We can win.

 **-x-**

 **Jon**

The second day was upon them.

In the morning the eastmen marched down the pass for another day of battle and the northmen stopped them. Whips crack. Barbarians howl. Those behind cry, "Forward!" While thoese in front cry, "Back!" All of Essos descends upons us. Every army they have to offer. Funneled into this narrow pass their numbers count for nothing. They shatter with each advance. Scouts report that King Mazor has become displease. He reprimands his generals by executing some, promoting others, and even stripping others of their lands and titles. He dispatches all of his forces and like waves they crash and recede.

Jon watches from atop a hill with Rickon and his three-hundred, overlooking the narrow pass. His royal guard will let the others fight for now seeing as they defeated the immortals last night. Umber, Flint, Glover, Karstark…Jon sends them in to hold the pass using spear formations. They had wanted a crack at Mazor's men since the first day and Jon must appease his bannermen. Like the royal guard before them the northmen do a good job at holding their lines and beating the eastmen back. Javelin's are tossed into the lines of charging eastmen and they fall like blades of grass into the wind. Jon has the northern troops rotated for fresh ones every so often—during a battle pulse. Both opposing armies cannot fight continuously and the ground gets slippery with the blood of dead eastmen. During those moments he sends in fresh men to cover the advance of others.

The day wears on and in the afternoon Jon goes into battle with his royal guard. They assume the phalanx formation and hold the line. We lose few. But each man of the royal guard that falls is a dear friend, or even dearest blood. One man even broke rank after seeing his dear cousin fall; he goes wild. Blood drunk. It took Rickon and two other men to restrain him. His screams fill the night and no songs are sung. But the day is ours.

Mazor's camp goes deadly quiet.

Soon the light gives away to dark and camp fires are built. The hot water springs pour and the sound gives them all ease. Jon stands on the Cliffside overlooking the pass and the sea. The waves are small and crash alongside the cliffs without making much of a sound. His grey cloak had begun to tatter from days of battle, the ends of them beginning to tear. Rickon's and all of the royal guard's cloaks had begun to tatter as well. Jon stares out into the sea and thinks about what Bran told him... _Then the North will mourn the loss of a king, a descendant from the Starks and Targaryens of old._

The royal guard are around their fires eating, sleeping, talking and tending their wounds.

"Tell the men a story," Jon orders of Rickon. "I would like to hear one as well."

Rickon nods and tells them the story of the Whispering Wood. Jon only stands around the fire with his men and listened, his helm feels cold in his hand. This tale was of the famous battle where the King in the North Robb Stark defeats the famous Tywin Lannister on the field, capturing the man's son Jaime Lannister. It was a perfect choice. The men huddled around and listened as Rickon told them of how King Robb lured the arrogant Kingslayer into battle using a small force of Tully men. Jaime Lannister had been attacking the riverlands lords in large numbers claiming victory after victory. But King Robb had sent two-thousand of his own men against Tywin to keep him busy in the east while Ser Jaime fought in the west. A diversion, Rickon told the men. A diversion to lure the Kingslayer away from his father. When Ser Bryden Tully lured the Kingslayer into a dense forest, the Whispering Wood, King Robb sprung his trap and killed many lions. When the battle was over Jaime Lannister was captured along with many others.

"For every northmen lost they took ten Lannisters with them!" Rickon bellowed. "Now as then we face similar odds. A mad tyrant comes to kill us and if he does we will take all of his men with us. We will fill them with so much fear, send shivers down their spines whenever they hear the name Stark, that those in the East will never think of invading the north again!" The men yelled at that, cheered for the King in the North. There was much laughter to be had as well.

But it was short lived.

"My good King!" yelled a man on horseback. From the looks of it, it was Lord Karstark. "King Jon, we are undone!" As fast as the wind the Lord of Karhold came into the camp of the Royal Guard and dismounted with ease. "Undone, I tell you!" He yelled. Jon approached him, the men stood from their fires to hear. "Destroyed! We have been betrayed! A traitor told King Mazor of the goat path that leads behind us! The Manderly men scattered without a fight, retreating back to White Harbor thinking Mazor will attack there first! This battle is over, King Jon! By morning the immortals will surround us! The Hot Gates will fall!"

"Keep calm, Lord Karstark" Jon urged. The men began to grumble around their fires.

"We cannot keep calm, my king. Now is the time to retreat and prepare to protect our homes. There's no victory to be had here—only surrender and death!"

"Well that's an easy choice for you, Lord Karstark. I have two-thousand men under my command to consider. I promised to keep them alive." Jon sighed loudly, cursing under his breath. "Go tell the other lords to convene here! We will discuss this."

Lord Karstark nodded and mounted his horse, going off to gather the northern lords. Jon thinks about what Bran told him again. _Then the North will mourn the loss of a king, a descendant from the Starks and Targaryens of old._ He knows in this moment that destiny had made its move. Jon knows that he will have to stay and fight…and die. He had to give his men time to retreat, hold Mazor back, and light a fire in the North that has never been seen. It was the only way to win this war.

"My royal guard!" Jon yelled, turning to them. "Gather around!"

The men did as bid and Jon said, "The gods favor us. By tomorrow we will light a fire not only in the North but all the Seven Kingdoms! By our own laws we must protect this land."

"What shall we do, my King?" a northman asked him.

"We must stand and fight," Jon said, standing in the middle of the fire. "And die if need be. We are the best the North has to offer. We three-hundred can give them enough time—enough time to allow the men to retreat back into the North and spread the story of what happened here. To unite the North and all the Seven Kingdoms in the fight against Mazor. Victory is upon us, lads. I understand if you want to go home—and as your king I will not stop you."

No one said a word. From the campfires all three-hundred stood, Rickon with them. One stepped forward, saying, "I'm with you, my King. To the death."

Jon looked to him and nodded. Another came forward and said, "I knew what I signed up for when I said yes, my King. I never expected us to come home alive anyway. I'm with you."

"My King," Rickon said now. Jon looked to him, nodding. "If this means we will echo in the histories—live in the hearts of the North. I will stay with you."

"The North remembers," echoed another lad. "I am with you!"

Soon all three-hundred with spears in the air chanted, " _The King in the North! The King in the North!_ "

Jon looked to his men and nodded. He felt a swell of pride for them. "A king could not ask for better men. We will stay then, my friends. To the death."

The northern lords arrived soon after and they gathered around with Jon. The king told them of how he and his three-hundred would stay, buying them all time to retreat back to their homes. He told them not to seek out revenge against the Manderlys—that most lords would have done what he did in choosing to protect his town and people. Jon left them with a choice to stay or to go back, promising that no further kings would seek retribution for this. Most chose to retreat—all save the Umbers who with their lord the Greatjon wanted to partake in the glory. Jon thanked him for his service and told them they had to retreat in small numbers. "If we retreat all at once Mazor will take notice and attack at once. We must do it slowly so as not to arouse suspicion. Come morning we will go out into the pass and hold them." The northern lords nodded and were soon off to begin the retreat.

Jon looked to Rickon after they left. He knew someone had to go tell the council at Winterfell about what happened here. He had to tell them about the victory as the other two-thousand who were already retreating will do. "Rickon, let's take a walk."

Rickon walked with him and in the distance they could hear the men talking. Others had begun to go to sleep. "I would have you go back with the others," Jon said. "You must go back to Winterfell."

"But, Jon," Rickon began, "I would not be branded a coward. I will stand and fight with my men. Send someone else in my stead."

Jon braced his shoulders. "I know, but you have a rare talent like no other. I would have you deliver my final orders to the council—with force and verve—and you will make every northmen know of what happened here. You'll have a grand tale to tell."

"What tale, Jon?"

"A tale of victory."

Rickon snorted. "You gave other men the option to go, but leave me without a choice. Why?"

"I trust no one else save you."

"I will not go, Jon—I cannot. If you send me away I will only wait by the Cliffside until morning and you will find me by your side in battle."

Jon sighed heavily. "I see you're truly a Stark. So stubborn we are." He scratched his beard. Rickon had a point, Jon could not stop him. "I gave others the choice and so I shall to you."

"I choose to stay, then. But tell me your orders nonetheless."

"You know we will die on the morrow, Rickon."

"I know. Just tell me them, regardless."

And so he did. Jon told him his final wishes for the council and who should succeed him until Robb is ready. He ordered that all the North muster in response, that the South come with them as well. When asked what Jon wanted in return he told Rickon a simple wish…a wish that only Jon knew would stay in their minds forever.

"And what shall I tell Sansa—should I survive to see her. What should the other men tell her?"

Jon's face turned hard. Images of Sansa filled his mind—of Robb and Lyanna as well. The thought made him sad but he had no time for this. Jon reached back behind his neck, unlaced the necklace Sansa gave him, and put it into the palm of Rickon's hand. "You'll know what to tell her."

Rickon could only nod. When dawn came the Royal Guard arose rested and ready. Most began to do gymnastics—stretching their muscles. Others combed out their hair and oiled their muscles. Some polished their shields and sharpened their swords. Jon did the same and trimmed his beard. If he was to die this day he would look his finest. When the men were ready they strapped on their armor, picked up their spears, put on their helms, and carried their shields. Jon stood with the rest of them on the Cliffside and watched the rest of the northmen retreating back in small numbers back to their homes…to live another day.

King Jon Targaryen Stark turned back to his men, his face like iron. "Eat a good breakfast, lads. For tonight we shall dine with the gods."


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: GRRM owns all. Frank Miller, too. If I have any reviews at this point, I want to say gratitude. If I don't this is embarrassing, lol.**

 **Chapter 8**

 **Sansa**

Her days began the same since Jon had left.

Each day Sansa awoke to a new day, a day without her husband. Each day was met by a heavy sigh but she did not let her emotions get the best of her. The servants would come in to dress her, her children to break their fast with her and the days went on the same. Making sure there was enough storage to last another winter, checking to see if her children attended their studies, and even attending the council meetings. It all weighed down on Sansa but she knew it had to be done. For Jon, she would tell herself.

The Carneia had been going on for some days now. Each night there were games, feasts, and prayers offered to the Old Gods. Sansa would attend as a good queen would do, but at times it got boring. Fools would entertain the children, meat and mead would be consumed—Stark soldiers would drag servant ladies onto their laps. The air constantly smelled of smoke, burnt meat, mead and fresh baked bread. Sansa would sit in her high chair overlooking the Great Hall with the throne of the king empty beside her. Robb at times would want to sit there being an eager boy of eight-and-ten, but he would sit down with the other lords and their sons and daughters.

Sansa had already begun to think of marriage for Robb. A marriage to further unify the North and the South. Jon had been speaking of a marriage to mayhaps a young Tyrell gal or mayhaps a Baratheon. Sansa and Daenerys had spoken of perhaps a betrothal between one of her daughters and Robb. Sansa knew that a girl of Daenerys would be beautiful. Robb had always liked beautiful girls—well every man liked beautiful women. Sansa didn't know but would speak about it with Jon when he returned. Sansa sighed at the notion, gripping the arms of her throne tightly. She missed her husband but had to be strong for him; the thought did not comfort her as much as it should.

Sansa was in front of the council chamber now, speaking on behalf of the King. Since Jon had left Sansa had made it her duty to persuade the council into sending the entire army. It was not working, however. Most of these men were old and some were too young to care. They only wanted to further their position on the council whilst the old men feared the Old Gods too much to act. The people of the north were a superstitious lot. Sansa understood the importance of religion, kept to both the old and gods of the seven, but in this moment nothing frusturated her more.

She was dressed in a dress of violet that clung to her body. Sansa had picked this dress on purpose. It was worn in hopes of perhaps persuading some council members into doing her bidding. She had met with some council members in secret—some who wanted to do something about this invasion but could not defy the other council members openly. Most of these men wanted titles and lands in return for their service, but Sansa could not come through with those promises without the consent of the King. And he was on the otherside of the North. One man even hinted at wanting another sort of favor from Sansa. He was older and Sansa even considered it for a moment… _whatever I have to do to help Jon_. Cersei had taught her how valuable _this_ weapon was…how easy it could be used to manipulate men. But Sansa knew that the man could make promises in the evening and break them come dawn. It did her no good to use this weapon without thinking about it first.

The council chamber gave her the full attention she needed. In their chairs they sat, looking at her. Some men looked at her with wanting, others curiosity, but most just wanted to listen.

Sansa held the hems of her dress in her hands and addressed them. "I am not here to represent our King Jon Stark. His actions speak louder than my words ever could. I am here for all the other peoples of the North who do not have a voice: sons, mothers, daughters, brothers, and cousins…the families of the three-hundred who are now bleeding for our rights. Not to mention the countless other men who may have joined Jon in his fight, and the countless others all across the North who do not have a say in the realms affairs." Most of the councilmen just stared at her and she continued, "And those three-hundred are fighting for our very rights. They're fighting for you." She pointed a finger at them. "We are at war, gentlemen," she continued. "We must send ravens to every corner of the kingdom—we must send the entire northern army to meet this King Mazor. Not just for ourselves, but for our children. Send the army for the preservation of our kingdom, for the liberties we enjoy, for the Seven Kingdoms as a whole…and for the three-hundred who are dying for us. Send it for them so they do not become a history lesson told by Maesters."

The councilmen looked at her, blank stares and shocked faces. "But, my queen," one of them protested. "We cannot send an army so soon. It takes time to think of logistics—food, supply depots, arms. These are things an army needs when it's on the move."

"Then we must send the ravens now, good councilmen. There is no time to lose."

"It is too late, my queen. There's nothing we can do for the King. It's all in the hands of the gods."

"It's in our hands!" Sansa yelled. "Only we have the power to send the army. The hope for a future—the future of this kingdom—rests in our hands, gentlemen."

"This does not change the fact that King Jon brought war upon us," a councilmen said now, standing to his feet. He was brown of hair with a brown beard to match.

"You are wrong!" Sansa barked at him. "This war was always going to come. Mazor is coming because Queen Daenerys and King Aegon chose to support that slave rebellion in the East."

"Then let them deal with it!" an elder councilmen said. "We had naught to do with it."

"The war is upon us, gentlemen, whether we like it or not. Mazor chose to invade the North first, not the South. We cannot change that. Mazor will not stop until the entire Seven Kingdoms are reduced to ash. This I can promise you."

"I need no lesson in what the Dragon Queen did all of those years ago, none of us do."

"Then what lesson do you want, councilman? You know that winter is coming. And it's on our doorstep."

The man snorted. "This war is not of our consequence. I say we leave Queen Daenerys and Aegon to it. Mazor will invade the South once he sees the North is too vast to conquer."

The council chamber erupted after that. The men stood from their fine chairs made of wood and iron, direwolves carved into them. Some men shouted to send the ravens, others to honor the Carneia. And the rest sided with the councilmen who said we should just wait until Mazor grows bored and just chooses to invade the South. Sansa thought them fools to believe that. An army so vast, an army at the behest of a man who itches for power will never stop. Again her words fell on deaf ears. _The fools_ , Sansa thought. _They're all just old men pissing in their pants or others who want the glory for themselves. Fools._

Sansa spent the rest of the day watching her son spar and her daughter sew with the other ladies of Winterfell. She did not want to think about the politics of it all, think about how the fate of the north rested in the hands of a handful of men. Sansa wished she herself could order the ravens to be sent but knew a queen did not have such power on her own. If that were the case what was the point of a council…and if she did that what would stop other future queens or kings from just doing what they liked? It would become tyranny.

That night she was in her chambers, alone. Robb and Lyanna had gone off to rest and a hearth was roaring in her chambers. Sansa got up to poke it and sat on her bed. She was dressed in her nightsclothes with furs to cover herself. Sansa had just finished combing out her auburn hair when a knock came on her door. "Who is it?" she asked, combing out her hair.

"It's Maester Willem, Your Grace."

 _I forgot I had sent for him._ "Yes, Maester. Just a moment."

Sansa stood up and wrapped herself in a robe to cover herself. She combed her hair and pulled a seat for herself and the maester. Maester Willem was the maester of the castle and a man in his later years. His hair was a mixture of brown and a grey, but he had no hair on his face. It looked odd at times to see a man his age with no hair, but Sansa supposed it did not matter.

The door to the chamber crept open, and the maester came in wearing his black robes and the maester's chains. "My queen," he said, giving his head a bow. "You wished to speak with me?"

"Yes, Willem." Sansa pulled over a seat for him. "Take a seat, if you will. I have some ale if you would like some. I know you prefer it over wine."

"No thank you, my queen," he replied, shaking his hands. "I am just fine without it." Willem took a seat in front of her, separated by a small table. "I am sure you're quite frustrated with the events going on in the council."

"Yes, I am," said Sansa with a nod. She held the wine glass daintily in her hand. "These councilmen do not know what they're doing. They think that this Mazor will simply stop once he grows bored of the north—as if the actions of their king meant nothing."

"Politics is a frustrating business, Your Grace. It's something I do not have the stomach for yet had to study it in the Citadel."

"What is your council, then?"

"These men want to honor the Carneia. Others want to scheme their way into having more influence over the council—even if it's at the cost of the North."

"What can I do to stop it?"

"Idealistically you could just send the ravens yourself—no one would defy your order." The Maester shifted in his seat. "But realistically most of those ravens would arrive, and you would change the political landscape of the kingdoms forever. Most won't adhere to the orders of a queen, and others would see your action as treason. I fear there would be grave consequences if you chose that."

"And realistically? What can I do?"

"Honor the Carneia." The Maester cleared his throat. "It's clear the councilmen will not defy it. I think, my queen, the only option we have is to wait for the festival to be over. Once that is said and done we can raise the banners at the behest of the council. They will send riders far and wide, ravens as well. Seeing that the Northern council has approved most northern lords will raise their banners. It's just a matter of time."

Sansa sipped her wine. "And if we do not have that time?"

"I see no other alternative, my queen. Unless…" He scratched his head. "Unless—now forgive me for saying this—but there is one thing that always unites a land."

"What is it?"

The Maester hesitated.

"Give me your council, Willem. It's always been cherished."

"If King Jon were to be killed in battle, Your Grace. That action alone would unite the kingdom and the Carneia would be ended prematurely."

Sansa could not stomach the notion. "So there's nothing I could do? I must wait mayhaps another fortnight to send aide to Jon."

"Scouts report that other bannermen have lent their aide to the King. I'm sure it's more than just his royal guard who are protecting the North."

Sansa could only nod. If there was another way she could persuade the men. Mayhaps there was someone she could see who would show her another path she herself could not see. That night Sansa dreamt she was in the crypts of Winterfell by herself. It was dark, wet, and cold. Sansa was dressed in her best dress—with her crown on her head. The statue of Lyanna Stark, the first one, was weeping tears of blood as was the statue of her father Eddard. Sansa felt a shiver up her spine, felt a bad feeling in her stomach. Suddenly she heard the caw of a raven and saw one standing on a statue of a king she had never seen before. It kept cawing as Sansa approached it and when she did she saw it had three-eyes. But the crypt it stood on was made in the likeness of…

Sansa awoke in a sweat, the hearth in the chamber had smoldered. Her dream had ended before she could makeout the likeness of this king in the crypts, but that was not the point of her dream. _The three-eyed raven_ , she thought. _Mayhaps Bran is calling to me._

When she arrived in the godswood it was quiet and serene. Sansa could see the leaves rustling off the ground in front of her, hear the drips of water coming from the black pond. The heart tree was bleeding out of its eyes when she kneeled in-front of it. "I know you can hear me, Bran!" she yelled. "Just make sure you take me to where I need to go when I place my hand on the tree. Don't delay any further, please."

Sansa kneeled and laid a hand on the tree. Bran kept good on his promise and suddenly she was in a cold, damp place where it smelled of mud. Sansa caught her breath and looked up to see the roots of trees covering a man. This man had auburn hair, blue eyes and did not smile. It was her brother Bran, she knew. It was this three-eyed raven.

Sansa stood from the ground, wiping the mud off her. "Am I really here?" she asked. "Is this all forreal or am I on the godswood floor asleep? Or this just a dream?"

"The King asked the same question," Bran replied. "And my answer is always the same. Does it matter?"

"You have not changed, I see. Ever the mysterious one, aren't you Brandon?"

"There is no Bran here. Only the three-eyed raven."

Sansa scoffed. "You'll always be Bran to me. I do not recognize this three-eyed raven."

"The boy you once thought of as your brother is dead."

"I see him right before me."

He smiled in the gloom. "You're still as witty as ever, Sansa Stark. There's not much that has changed." Bran sighed. "Life is full of ironies, is it not? To think this would be the culmination of it all."

Sansa had thought the same. "You sent for me in that dream, Bran. I know it was you. Who was the statue you did not let me see? Whose crypt was that?"

"I cannot answer that for you."

"Tell me!" her voice echoed off the walls. "You cannot just do this!"

"But it is you who wanted to speak with _me_. That is where your thoughts have been as of late."

 _How does he know…?_ "Can you read minds?"

He laughed. "Not in the way you think I can. Nonetheless, you will receive the answer soon. You're here because you wanted to speak with me. You fear for Jon and want to help him."

Sansa nodded and approached him. She wished to caress her baby brother's face but the roots stood in her way. "I long to help him, Bran. I just want to make sure we protect the kingdom."

"Jon will protect the kingdoms in a way you cannot fathom."

 _What does he mean?_ "What do you mean, Bran?"

"I can show you what I mean or you can choose not to."

"Will it help me convince the council?"

"There's no convincing them, Sansa. If there was a way you would've found it. I cannot help you there. I sent for you in that dream to appease your suffering. You have been wanting to help but I say its folly. Jon will be the one to convince them."

"But how? He's leagues away."

Bran stared at her with his blue eyes. "I can show you what I've seen. Lay down near the foot of the roots and I will show you."

Sansa did as bid. The mud felt cold against her furs and she laid there staring at the dark ceiling. Suddenly she strayed out of thought and time, looking at visions. There stood Jon in his armor, but he looked different. His grey cloak was tattered, his shield dented by sword blows, and his armor had scars on it from swords. Jon stood there holding his spear looking forward while his men were behind him in a shield formation. Another vision showed a man with a brown beard and brown eyes wearing a golden crown, watching as his army was defeated on a great green field. Sansa saw the banners of the North rushing down the field. Finally she saw men walking into the gate of Winterfell, holding a body on a shield. One them had hair she reconginized…

Sansa awoke in the godswood breathing heavily. She did not know what to make of it all. _Who was the man on the shield?_ She asked herself.

Sansa began to cry and her cries echoed throughout the godswood floor.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: GRRM owns all. Frank Miller, too. Also I'd like to say thanks to King Xerxes of Persia and King Leonidas of Sparta, along with this three hundred for making this all possible. Along with the other seven thousand Greeks who fought at Thermopylae. Also thanks to the Athenians for supporting the Ionian Revolt.**

 **Chapter 9**

 **Rickon**

Rickon's breath is shallow.

They're surrounded, he knows. From the rear the Umbers hold their own position and are ready to fight with them. The immortals came marching down the goat path in silence at dawn, thirsting for revenge. They close in for the kill. From the slits in his helm Rickon sees all before him. The royal guard stand with him in tattered cloaks, dented shields, and scratched armor. Rickon grips his spear and lets his shield rest at his side. The winds from the coast send a cool breeze against his face and the caws of the seagulls can be heard from all around. The men lie together readying themselves for their final act, their final moment of glory. Beside him Rickon can hear the labored breathing of his men and he could only live in this moment. He had said goodbye to Alys this morning in his own way. Praying that she could find a husband that treats her well and loves her as she deserves. It is all he can do to calm the stirring storm inside of him—the fear that grips him. Rickon remembers what Jon had told him when he first was baptized by the fires of combat. "Fear is a constant," he told Rickon. "But once you accept it, it makes you stronger."

The King stood in front of his men looking like a king of old. His grey cloak billowed in the wind, tattering at the ends after two days of hard battle. He holds his shield up next to him in righteous indignation. Jon grips his spear and looks forward, as if he is staring down all of the men Mazor has brought down upon them. The eastmen stand only one-hundred yards in-front of them in their formation. Men carrying shields made of wicker and swords of bronze. They would be easy to kill, Rickon knew, but seeing as they were surrounded he knew it was a matter of time before they would all be killed.

A man sits on a throne carried by his own men. It is far off, but just close enough to watch them, and his throne is not so extravagant. Made of wood and gold, it is, and small enough for just a man to sit on. The man that sits there is wearing golden robes with intricate detail but even his robes are simple. He wears a thick brown beard, braided and combed. The crown on his head his made of gold with jewels ordaining it. It's Mazor, Rickon concludes. The King of the East has come to watch the spectale. Has come to watch the death of King Jon and his three-hundred. _We will give him a spectacle to behold._

An emissary approaches. The eastern emissary is wearing a black cotton garb with intricate white linen detail, a leather breast plate, and a white garb to cover his neck and face. _That breastplate will easily give away to my spear_ , Rickon noticed. "My compliments—and my congratulations," the emissary began. "You have surely turned misfortune into victory. Despite your insufferable arrogance, King Mazor has come to admire this northern valor and fighting skill. He seeks to make you a powerful ally against Queen Daenerys and King Aegon."

A man stepped forward but his skin was fair. He was sounded like a northmen. _He's the traitor…_ Rickon did not recongnize him. "Yield, King Jon. Use your reason. Think of your men!"

"Listen to your fellow northmen," the emissary said. "He can attest to King Mazor's generosity. Despite your several insults—despite your horrid blasphemies—the lord of hosts is prepared to forgive all—and more, to reward you for your service. You fight for your lands? Keep them! You fight for Winterfell? She will be wealthier and more powerful than ever before! You fight for your kingship? You will be proclaimed King of the Seven Kingdoms—answerable only to the one true King of the World! Your victory will be complete—if you lay down your arms and kneel to King Mazor!"

Jon says nothing and grips his spear tighter. Rickon could only wish to know what is going through his mind, but fortunately knows his own. It had been nineteen years since the Night's King and the winter cold. Rickon thinks back to what he told him during their march over here—that now, as then, it is not fear that grips him. Only a restlessness, a heightened sense of things. Rickon watches as the seaborne breeze coolly kisses the sweat at his neck. The seagulls caw as they feast on thousands of floating dead. The steady breathing of the three hundred beside him—ready to die for their king without a moment's pause, every one of them. _Ready to die_ , Rickon remembers Jon saying, _as if any of you knows what that means until it stares you in the face_.

Jon reaches up to grab his helmet and throws it on the ground. Rickon knows how stifling it can be. He throws his shield down to the ground, how heavy it must be.

"Your spear!" the emissary commands.

But Jon points it at the traitor. "Whomever you are, man of White Harbor. I hope the histories remember your name forever."

The man only looks to the ground in shame. "Your spear, King Jon," the emissary urges a second time. Jon falls to his knees, throwing his spear daintily beside him. The men gasp at the sight, but Rickon knows his plan. His mad plan to end this once and for all…to seal the victory for them.

" _Rickon!_ " Jon yelled, loud and thunderous like a god. Rickon runs from the formation, gripping both his shield and spear tight, and jumps off Jon's back to stab the emissary in the chest with his spear. The eastern emissary looks at him in shock, blood poured out his chest and trickled down his mouth. Rickon turned to see Jon having thrown his spear down at Mazor. His helmet was stifling and narrowed his vision. His shield was heavy and threw him off balance, and he must throw far. " _Mazor!_ " Jon yelled. " _Die!_ "

Rickon watched as the spear flied in wind almost as straight as an arrow. In this moment Rickon thought back to what he had learned about the northmen. The histories say that the northmen are descended from the First Men themselves. Jon gives testament to this as he roars loudly at the eastmen, as if he was a dragon or a direwolf.

But the spear missed only to graze Mazor in the side of the face. The eastmen surrounded their wounded king and look at Rickon. Jon pulled Rickon by his shoulder and they both ran back towards their lines. "Slaughter them!" Rickon heard someone yell and suddenly he hears the footsteps as Mazor's army charged at them.

The shields of what remained of the royal guard opened for them, and Rickon stepped through with his king. Jon had picked up his helm from the ground and his shield as well. Another man handed him a spear and the men assume the phalanx formation. Shields overlapped together like dragon scales and spears pointed out like needles on a pin cushion. Rickon held his breath, knowing that this will be his final moments on earth. He just was happy it was to be in the heat of battle, dying what he called a glorious death.

From behind he already heard the immortals fighting the Umbers in battle, and before them the eastmen were ready to crash upon them like a mighty tidal wave. When they did the royal guard pushed them back and stabbed, fighting as fierce as a pack of wolves. With nothing to lose they fought like mad men void of all thought or care. Rickon pushed his shield back, stabbing a eastmen in the chest with his spear. With nothing to lose he yelled with each stab, laughed as he pulled his spear out, and grinned when the blood splayed on his chest. All the royal guard did the same and from behind Rickon could hear the Umbers being pushed back, being pushed closer to the royal guard. Beside him the king was fighting like a mad man as well, jabbing and pushing to his heart's content. No one at this point really cared and it was good to them. A glorious death…

Mazor had sent all his might at them. Unlike before he gave them mo respite in battle, gave them no time to collect their breath. With hearts racing and muscles aching the phalanx formation began to crumble. From behind them the Umbers had already been pushed back, back enough to have their own backs against those of the royal guard. The royal guard's losses were few at this point. Some men had taken spears to the neck or javelins to the chest, but still the losses were few. Rickon pushed his shield and jabbed, doing the best he could but it got to the point where his spear shattered from all the jabbing and pulling.

Around him the same thing began to happen and the formation was practically broken. The men of the royal guard drew their swords, while some still used their spears to fight like feral wolves. Rickon did the same and so did the king whose spear had been broken as well. Now the phalanx formation all but crumbled and it became an all-out fight for their lives. The Umbers fought honorably and as well as they could. Lord Jon Umber swung his great sword like a mad man, hacking and slashing at the immortals. His men had began to fall to the ground being surrounded and stabbed to death.

Rickon stood by Jon and guarded him the best he could. An immortal came at Rickon now and he only swiped the bastard's spear thrust with his sword, only for it to meet the immortals neck. Much of the battle was like this. Rickon would kill one immortal or eastmen only for another to take its place. On the ground more of the royal guard began to appear, dead and hacked to bits with furiousity. But beside them laid at least ten eastmen and Rickon felt pride for that. The shouts, curses, and screams of battle filled his ears and Rickon could only fight like a man with nothing to lose. He cut off limbs, hacked at man's necks and stabbed them in their bellies. Now their losses were becoming greater and Rickon could only stand by the king.

Jon was now fighting with two swords, his shield having been dented too far when it took a spear to its center. He deflected one blow only to slash at the man's leg, and then stab him in the belly with his free sword. Jon turned around to see two men coming at him and Rickon rushed to fight with his king. He hacked at the man's leg who was coming for Jon. The man gave out a yelp and he slit the bugger's throat. Jon had been hitting an eastmen in the face with the pommel of his sword when Rickon heard a shout from behind. Three eastmen came at him with one immortal. Rickon blocked the first one's blow with his shield and slashed the lad's throat with his sword. The second one jabbed at him with a spear and Rickon hacked at it. When it was broken he hit the man in the face with his shield, sending him to the ground. The third man came at him yelling with his sword raised; on the downswing Rickon met him with an upswing, taking the man's arm off at the elbow. The man yelled but Rickon eased his pain by slashing at his neck. Finally the immortal came and he tackled Rickon. They went to the ground and the immortal was on top, trying to gauge Rickon's eyes out but his helm protected him. Rickon punched the immortal in the gut and threw him off him. He then wrestled on top of the silent whoreson and smashed his head in with the edge of his shield.

Rickon stood up, grabbing his shield and sword and surveryed the scene before him. What remained of the royal guard were now rallying around Jon, fighting like mad men with whatever weapons they could muster. Some fought with only a sword, some with only a shield. Some fought with no helms on while others with sword and shield to match. Their grey cloaks were ripped to ribbons and their armors dented beyond repair. Rickon turned around to see the Umbers had all been but slaughtered. The Greatjon stood with whatever remained of his men and took off heads with his giant sword.

It was then Rickon heard the yell.

" _My King!_ " he heard suddenly and Rickon turned to see what had happened. Jon stood there with arrows sticking out his neck, legs, and arms. Rickon's eyes grew wide and time moved slow as he rushed forward to save his brother-cousin. Jon dropped his swords, fell to his knees and stared up at the sky. The royal guard rallied around their fallen king, fighting the men of Mazor valiantly.

" _Jon!_ " Rickon yelled but three eastmen blocked his advance. They came running at him with swords and spears, but in this moment not even the Old Gods, Seven Gods, Red God, Drowned God, Many-Faced God, and the millions of others in counting could stop him. Rickon slashed one in the face with his sword, hit the other in the throat with his shield, and stabbed in the belly. By the time Rickon reached the king he was on the floor, his eyes looking at the sky. With the chaos looming around him he took off his helm and knelt by Jon's body. Jon's helm was off to the side, his silver eyes looked above and blood was seeping out of the arrow wounds he had received. One in the neck, one in the arm, and two in the thighs. Rickon put a hand on his kings chest and closed his eyes forever. There was no time to grieve.

In front and around him he could see an eastmen trying to pull at Jon's leg. Rickon grabbed his sword and shield, standing up to stab the bastard in the face. "Protect the King!" Rickon yelled loudly and what remained of the three-hundred rallied around him. Even the Umbers retreated back to fight for Jon's body. Like mad men they fought for their kings body not letting Mazor take it to do with it what he will. Rickon slashed at one man, battered another's head in with his shield and even beat one to deat with his fists. The Greatjon yelled loudly and swung his sword, protecting Jon's body the best he could.

When it was all said and done the eastmen retreated back to their lines. At this point Rickon had lost his sword and shield. Martyn came forward and tossed Rickon a spear. He caught it in the air and stood to face the eastmen with whatever men remained. Rickon stood in front of Jon's body fiercely, protecting him as a mother bear would her cubs.

He looked to his sides and saw only ten northmen remained living. Six of them were of the royal guard including Rickon, while the other four were Umbers. The Greatjon was beside Rickon with his labored breath and blood slick on his giant sword. The Umber men were reduced to nothing but chainmail and fighting tunics, holding whatever weapons they could. Rickon's men were reduced to holding swords and spears—not one carried a shield. Martyn was beside him with cuts on each of his limbs and one on his face. He looked to Rickon with a grin holding his sword firm.

The eastmen did not advance on them, did not rain arrows upon them to finish them off. They just stood there at attention as if someone had ordered it. Rickon looked behind him to see the immortals doing the same, standing at attention with the black linen over their faces.

"Fight, you cowards!" the Greatjon bellowed. "Is it now that you choose to cower away seeing as we slaughtered so many of you like sheep!"

The eastmen said nothing and only opened their ranks for someone. A man came through on horseback wearing golden robes with intricate detail. He had a brown braided beard and a golden crown on his head. On his cheek was a cut with dried up blood. _Mazor…_

He reared his horse up to look at them. Looked at what remained of the northmen. "You have fought valiantly," Mazor said. "I admire the heart with which you northmen fight. I admired your king as well."

"And who might you be?" asked the Greatjon.

"I am King Mazor," the man introduced himself as. "I am the King of Kings. The King of the East. You've heard my titles…"

"Aye, I've heard about you," Rickon said. "I heard about the children you nail to trees, the women you condemn to a lifetime of slavery. I've heard about the elderly whose heads you chop off for amusement. You'll probably do that to Jon's body as well."

"I am not these things you say I am," Mazor replied. He trotted his horse to face them. "Even kings can be generous to each other. Even enemies can show respect. This is why I have decided to show you all mercy. Where I come from we treat valiant heroes and men-at-arms with the respect. You fight with heart and defend your king even in death. That's more than I can say for my own men." Mazor looked to Rickon. "This is why I give you a choice: you can die on this patch of land with your king, slaughtered by arrows, or you can take his body back to Winterfell. Give him the proper funeral he deserves. I only command that you tell the tale of what happened here. Tell them what happens when you defy me. I give you these two options. Think carefully."

Rickon looked to the Greatjon and to his men and they all nodded in agreement. He looked to Mazor and said, "We will still be your enemies on the morrow. This does not change anything."

"You're still my enemy in this moment. But like I said enemies can still show respect. So which will it be, my valiant northmen. Life or death?"

Rickon only gripped his spear and let it fall to the ground. With nothing to lose his men did the same.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: GRRM owns all. Frank Miller, too. Thanks to anyone who read and even reviewed this story. Also thanks to Themistocles of Athens for defending the Artemisia Straight.**

 **Chapter 10**

 **Sansa**

Sansa awoke to tolling bells.

They tolled loud and deep, awaking her from her slumber. She awoke to a smoldering hearth and a deep breeze entering the chamber. The grey drapes on her window bellowed in the wind, and Sansa arose from her bed to throw on her furs. The bells of Winterfell did not just toll for anyone: for a wedding, a funeral, a death, and a returning army. _Jon!_ Sansa rushed from her bedside and threw open her drapes to peer out the window. In the courtyard she saw guards and common folk began to huddle. Out on the Kingsroad she saw no army coming down it and figured something was not right. In her bones she did not feel this was right…Sansa had to figure out what had happened.

She dressed quickly, wanted to dress simple, but remembered that she was the queen. Sansa chose a dress of Stark grey with white outlines on her bodice. On the skirts was a direwolf sown in black. Sansa draped on some furs and placed her crown on her auburn hair. When she arrived in the courtyard all were gathered to see something. Sansa made her way to the front with guards following her only to find the councilmen standing there with Robb, Lyanna, and Maester Willem. Sansa approached her children and nodded, keeping her queenly composure. Robb did as well, dressed in his finest grey doublet and black breeches. Lyanna was in a dress of blue and she hugged Sansa tight.

"Has Papa returned?" she whispered lightly.

Sansa rubbed her back. "I'm not sure, sweet child. We will see."

Sansa looked forward and the gates opened slowly. She remembered the vision Bran had shown her—of the men coming through the gates holding something on a shield. In this moment her breath became shallow, her chest constricted, but Sansa remained strong for her children. _Fear is a constant_ , she remembered Jon telling her, _but if you accept you become stronger._ The giant gate of Winterfell creaked open and from the darkness Rickon appeared in his armor. His auburn hair was finly combed, his helm was tucked under his arm, his sword strapped to his hip, his shield and spear were strapped to his back. On his armor Sansa saw dents from battle and his leather skirts had begun to tear.

But what she saw behind him made her throat hitch.

Six men were carrying a body on a shield, she saw. These six men were of the royal guard, she knew, but no others returned with them. Sansa knew what had happened now. Mazor had won and the northmen had been defeated. Sansa looked to the body draped in white linens but on top of it was a sword with Jon's horse-crested helm. In her heart Sansa knew that Jon was under there…Bran's vision had come true. The dream had come true. Another King in the North was to be buried under the crypts of Winterfell.

"Who is that they're carrying, Mama?" Lyanna looked up to ask her.

Sansa rubbed her back once more with tears threatening to breach her eyes. "I'm not sure, my sweet," she lied.

"That's my father's helm," Robb pointed out. "And that's his sword."

Rickon turned around to grab Jon's helm and his sword, stepping forward to greet them. Sansa rushed forward with her children and Rickon said nothing. She looked at his blue eyes and he could only look back at hers. Behind those eyes was a sadness, Sansa noticed. As if her brother wanted to cry and be held by his sister.

But the Castellan of Winterfell did no such thing.

Instead he laid the helm on the ground in-front of Robb's feet. The helm was polished but had dents in it, Sansa noticed. Even a streak was over the eye where a sword had cut it. Rickon turned to Sansa, opened her hand, and laid the necklace she had made for Jon. Sansa looked down at it, holding the sinew and the fang in her hands. She closed her eyes, sighed heavily and swallowed her tears.

The only sounds in this moment was nothing. Everyone was silent, even the smithy, and the only thing that could be heard was the wind and rustling of leaves. Rickon turned to Robb now and got down on one knee, holding up Jon's sword as if he was offering it.

" _The King in the North!_ " Rickon began to yell. " _The King in the North!_ "

Sansa looked to Robb who was shocked and looked to her. She only nodded and got down beside Rickon, yelling, " _The King in the North!_ "

Lyanna with tears stains on her face did the same. Sansa reached over to hold her daughters hand and they continued. Soon all in attendance were on a knee—from the smithy to the councilmen, the castle guard, and even the six remaining men of Jon's royal guard. " _The King in the North!_ " they all yelled. " _The King in the North!_ "

" _The King in the North!_ " Sansa yelled with them. Yelled for Jon and her son. She felt a tear trickle down her cheek but wiped it away before anyone could see. Lyanna griped her hand even tighter.

" _The King in the North!_ " all of Winterfell yelled. " _The King in the North!_ "

 _The North remembers_ , was all Sansa thought.

-x-

 **Rickon**

Jon's body was buried the next day.

All of Winterfell was in attendace to say goodbye and the bells tolled all day for him. Rickon sat upon the high-dais with his family looking down as the common folk, men-at-arms, councilmen, and guards would walk into the Great Hall to pay their final respects. Jon's hair had been combed out, his beard had been trimmed, and he laid to rest on a giant marble table they had made for him. He was wearing his finest grey doublet, the finest black leather breeches, and all of his cuts were washed and sown. Even in death his king looked serene and Rickon only thought that this was all a dream.

When they buried him in the crypts Rickon did not cry. The queen cried, the princess cried, the women and some men even cried, but not Rickon. He had cried the day after Mazor had let them all live. He cried beside Jon's body and watched the stars. His tears were all but spent and he had none left to spare. The builders built a new statue to his likeness and laid a sword in his hand. The princess Lyanna put blue roses all over her father's crypt and it smelled so sweet.

Now Rickon stood before the councilmen and his sister, the Queen. But instead of it being a private affair all of Winterfell tried to gather into the Great Hall. Rickon stood upon the high dais, dressed in his finest clothing, and looked down upon them. Councilmen sat in-front in their chairs, Sansa with them and her children. In every corner stood a group of guards and against the wall they laid as well. The common folk sat on the benches, chairs, and in the tables. Rickon stood before them to deliver Jon's final wishes, to tell them the story of the Hot Gates…of the victory they had there.

"Remember us," Rickon began. The whole Great Hall was so quiet you could hear a needle drop. "It was as simple an order a king could give. Remember why we died. For King Jon did not wish for a lavish funeral, celebration or song. He did not want poems of war or valor." Rickon looked at them all with a stone gaze. All eyes were locked on him. "His wish was simple: remember us. Remember us, he said to me." He looked to Sansa and his niece, and his nephew. "That was his hope. Should any free soul come across this place—in all the countless centuries yet to be—may our voices whisper to you from the ageless stones. Go tell the northmen, passerby, that here defending them we lie."

Rickon snapped into the present now, standing around a campfire surrounded by his men. They looked at them listening to his stories, as those before him had barely a year ago. "And so my king died and so my brothers died. Barely a year ago." The wood cackled from the flames and the heat felt good upon Rickon's face. "Long I pondered my king's cryptic talk of victory. And time proved him wise. From Dorne to the Wall did the word spread—that bold Jon Stark and his three-hundred, so far from home, laid down their lives, not just for the North, but for all the Seven Kingdoms—and the promise this country holds. Our country. Our kingdoms. Inspired now, united—setting aside past rivalries, joining forces to drive the invader from our shores. From our shores—and from our seas."

Rickon had just told them the story of the Hot Gates. It was his best story yet.

"Off the coast in the Blackwater, King Aegon led his navy to shatter Mazor's armada," Rickon continued. "And now—here—on this rocky, ragged patch of Westeros we call the Neck—Mazor and his horde face obliteration! Those barbarians huddle, sheer terror gripping tight their hearts with icy fingers, knowing what they suffered at the spears and swords of the three-hundred! They stare across this plain at ten thousand northmen—commanding thirty-thousand men of the South! _Ahoooo!_ "

His men jumped to their feet, joining Rickon to hoist his spear in the air. " _Ahooooo!_ " they chanted. " _Ahoooo! Ahoooo!"_

"The enemy outnumber us a paltry three to one. Good odds for any Westerosi. This day we rescue a world from this shadow in the East, and usher in a future brighter than anyone can imagine. Give thanks, men, to King Jon and his brave three-hundred—and ready yourselves to war! To victory!"

The next day the order is given. Rickon sits atop his destrier with King Robb and his cavalry—his royal guard. Next to him the king is twenty now, his auburn hair down his shoulders. His armor is heavy and his sword is in his hand. On his head nestles the same crown his father wore, the same many kings in the north wore before him. Beside Rickon the Greatjon Umber sits on his warhorse as well, ready to lead the charge.

About three-hundred yards in front of them lies Mazor and his men, trembling with fear. Queen Daenerys and King Aegon are on their warhorses as well leading the left flank. With the vanguard Rickon looks over on his hill to see men from the North and South like a giant sea. Spears, swords, shields and arrows waiting to repel this invader. The banners flap in the air—consisting of Targaryen dragons, the direwolf of Stark, the Lannister lion, the Martell flower, the Stag of Baratheon, the Sun of Martell, and the falcon of Arryn.

King Robb gives the order. The horn is blown. The men cheer.

To victory, we charge.


End file.
